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“ When out of vision and desire was wrought 
The sudden sm that from the living thought 
Leaps a live deed^ and dies not." 

A. C. Swinburne. 


Round -Robin Series, y ? 

' >/ 


The Georgians 



JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY 

i88i 


Copyright, i88t, 

By JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY. 

All rights reserved. 


t 


Stereotyped and Printed by Rand, Avery, Co,, 
ii‘j Franklin Street, Boston. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER. 

PAGE. 

I. 

Judge Wakefield’s Will 

.... 9 

II. 

“Auld Acquaintance”. 

. . . * . 21 

III. 

Madame Orlanoff . 

• 33 

IV. 

A Southern Home 

• • • • 55 

V. 

The Laurenses . 

• 75 

VI. 

Beneath the Pines 

. . . . lOI 

VII. 

May Days .... 


VIII. 

Sunday; and a Sermon 

. . . . i6i 

IX. 

A Harsh Farewell . 

. . . . 191 

X. 

Confession 

. . . . 209 

XL 

After the Wedding 

. 233 

XII. 

The Midnight Hour . 

251 

XIII. 

How Kate went away . 

. . ... 263 

XIV. 

The Foreign Letter . 

277 

XV. 

All that Love can do . 

. . . . 291 


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“ Whither sKall I fly from death ? Show me the place, show 
me the people, to whom I may have recourse, whom death does 
not overtake. Show me the charm to avoid it. If there be 
none, what would you have me do ? I cannot escape death ; 
but cannot I escape the dread of it ? Must I die trembling 
and lamenting ? ” — EPICTETUS. 



THE GEORGIANS. 


CHAPTER I. 

JUDGE Wakefield’s will. 

A BROAD-SHOULDERED, heavily-built, 
elderly man, with sandy-gray hair, keen 
eyes, and a full, clean-shaven face, came slowly 
down the front steps of old Dr. Potter’s house, 
adjusting the cape of a large double 'cloak 
which he wore. Then, as his feet struck the 
brick sidewalk, he straightened himself, took 
his stout cane from under his arm, and walked 
down the street at a steady if not rapid pace. 
The cloak, hanging open in front, revealed the 
well-worn broadcloth suit, with the low-cut 
vest, and immaculate, old-fashioned, full shirt- 
bosom, the customary attire of the wearer. It 
was the Hon. Virgil Wakefield, member of 


9 


10 


THE GEORGIANS. 


Congress before the war, and now judge of a 
city court, — a peculiar, warm-hearted, incon- 
sistent old gentleman, whose history would fill 
a volume. He had the flow of language, the 
sense of humor, and usually the jovial air, of a 
man whose heart is open to all the world ; but 
he had also a great sense of personal dignity, 
power of sarcasm, and a fine, unsuspected reti- 
cence. His best friends knew of him only 
what he chose them to know. He had re- 
cently lost his wife, after a childless marriage 
extending over thirty-five years. That this 
union had been an unhappy one, some sus- 
pected, but no one knew. The old man’s 
bearing, dignified and friendly, benevolent yet 
majestic, was the same as before; and few 
ventured to condole with him, though none 
knew why. Something in the judge’s appear- 
ance, manner, or known characteristics, sug- 
gested the old lion ; and his expression showed 
him a man who felt himself born to be master 
of the situation. 

No one could have guessed from consulting 
his face that the Hon. Virgil Wakefield had just 
heard from his life-long friend and family physi- 


JUDGE WAKEFIELD^ S WILL. II 

cian that his days were to be few, and that the 
sands of life were running low. He looked like 
a man in the prime of health and vigor : he 
waved a muscular, stout old hand, and nodded 
pleasantly to the acquaintance that he met ; but 
he knew that the doctor had told the truth, and 
that death was at his heart. He knew it ; but 
he was not thinking of that as he walked, but 
of those who should come after him. He was 
settling in his mind the conditions of his 
will. 

An old horse, well fed, but badly groomed, 
harnessed to a shabby, easy-riding top.-buggy, 
awaited the judge before his office-door ; and he 
was about to enter the vehicle, when his keen 
eye caught sight of a tall, erect figure advan- 
cing from some distance up the street. The 
elder man waited until the younger was close 
to him, and then thrust out his hand. 

“ Howdy, sir,” he said abruptly. 

'' Good evening, judge,” returned the younger 
man, shaking hands. 

“ Get in, and go home with me, Marcus ; I 
want to talk with you,” the judge said. 

It is rather early for me,” said the other 


12 


THE GEORGIANS. 


hesitatingly. “ I was going to walk out later. 
However” — 

“ It is after four. Get in,” insisted the elder, 
with the good-natured freedom of a familiar 
friend ; and Marcus Laurens, slightly smiling, 
entered the buggy without more ado, while 
Judge Wakefield slowly and ponderously fol- 
lowed him, and drove off at a gentle pace. 

When they were clear of the town, — both 
living about two miles from the suburbs, — the 
judge, who had exchanged only a few casual 
remarks with his companion heretofore, and 
had been silent for some moments, said, — 

“ Mark, I have chosen you for my executor 
in preference to every other man I know, old 
or young. Will you act for me V' 

I would do almost any thing you asked, 
judge ; but I hope it will be a long while 
before ” — 

“Not so long — not so long as you may 
think. Well, I want to give you some informa- 
tion as to my family affairs. I usually keep 
these matters to myself. I despise a man that’s 
always chattering about himself and his kin- 
folks, and his property and his prospects, and 


JUDGE WAKEFIELD^S WILL. 1 3 

his position and opinions, — I do. I wouldn’t 
give a quarter for as many as could stand in a 
ten-acre lot on tiptoe ! ” 

This preface, delivered with extraordinary 
rapidity and vehemence, scarcely stirred a smile 
on the grave countenance of the listener, who 
was quite used to such speeches from his old 
friend. There was a difference of thirty-five 
years in the ages of the two men ; and yet 
Mark was habitually the more sedate of the two. 

Well, the list of my family isn’t a long one. 
We all were born in Savannah. I had two sis- 
ters : one married a West Pointer, and is now 
the widow of a colonel, with one child, a young 
girl ; the other was my favorite sister, and 
you’ve seen her picture at The Pines. She 
was a beauty, poor little thing, and she mar- 
ried a Frenchman, a man of rank and family; 
but I have never forgiven him for taking her 
abroad, and letting her die there. They are 
both dead and gone now ; but she left a daugh- 
ter, with whom I have lately exchanged a few 
letters. My sister used to send me this little 
girl’s picture every year. She is about the love- 
liest little creature you ever laid your eyes on. 


H 


THE- GEORGIANS. 


and very like her mother, — very like her. She 
is the one I mean to leave most of my property 
to. You will be her next neighbor, and I want 
you to advise her and look after her. I don’t 
believe in a woman’s holding property in her 
own right, but there’s no other way to fix it for 
this niece of mine. She can’t enjoy it through 
any man, and I shall have to trust it to her 
outright.” 

But is it likely that she will ever come to 
this country to live } ” 

‘‘Why not, sir.? It’s her mother’s native 
State. Oh, yes ! she’ll come. I’m going to 
leave her The Pines on that condition : no, I 
won’t make it a condition, but I’ll make a 
special request that she will come and live here 
one year. She may be timid about the jour- 
ney ; but once here — I tell you it’s the finest 
climate on the created globe ! I want her here. 
I want to take her out of Europe. She’s been 
unhappy. She married a Russian ; but that’s 
all over now. She’ll come.” 

“ Oh, if that is the case ! I imagined she was 
still a young girl, — a French demoiselle, per- 
haps convent-bred ; but I might have known 


JUDGE WAKEFIELD'S WILL. 1 5 

that you would know how to settle your own 
affairs.” 

I am sure she’ll come. Her aunt in New 
Y ork shall meet her, and bring her down ; and 
I want you to receive them, and try to make 
her satisfied. I shall leave my sister in New 
York about seven thousand dollars ; and I am 
going to leave old Seneca the house he’s living 
in, and an acre or so of land. You’ll see about 
all that. My sister Bell married a Yankee 
officer. Did I tell you.^ He staid in the 
Northern army all through the war. I used 
to feel sorry for her ; but she has never com- 
plained. I believe he left her some fortune. 
Seven thousand dollars in Georgia bonds is all 
I shall leave her.” 

“Will what you please to them, judge; but 
I trust it will be long before you leave any 
thing to them.” 

“ ‘ Of that day and hour knoweth no man,’ 
Marcus. I’ve lived long enough, and tried to 
do my duty. I struck out’ for myself when I 
was a young man, and made my own way. My 
wife had a little money, but not much. It -was 
up-hill work for forty years. I lost twenty 


1 6 THE GEORGIAN'S. 

thousand dollars before I got broke of going 
security for men who didn’t care a thrippence 
for me. Well, I’m about to the end of my 
tether. I don’t leave many to mourn for me ; 
but I don’t leave one that can say I wronged 
him. I’ve fought fair when I did fight, and I 
don’t leave an enemy I’d care to conciliate. 
Mark, don’t lay it up against me, my son, that 
I’ve talked about myself so much to-day. 
Here’s your gate. Get down, and good-by. 
I know you won’t forget what I’ve said, or fail 
to keep it to yourself. Good-by.” 

Marcus Laurens was, ordinarily, a man of 
few words. Perhaps the judge loved him be- 
cause he was such a good listener; but this 
afternoon he felt an impulse to say something 
warmer and more responsive than his lips had 
yet uttered. However, Judge Wakefield drove 
off before he could frame his feelings into 
words ; and the young man, tall, stalwart, si- 
lent, stood still by the gate, his fine face* lit up 
by the sunset-light, and watched him go. 

They met as usual for weeks after this, but 
neither referred to their former conversation; 
and when the judge died suddenly, after Christ- 


JUDGE WAKEFIELD'S WILL. 1 / 

mas, the young man, looking into the calm face 
of his dead friend, wished that he had told him, 
ere he went, how great a place in his own life 
would be left vacant. 

Mark found the judge’s affairs all in order. 
His private papers had been destroyed ; but 
in the will were found the addresses of his sis- 
ter Mrs. Davidge in New York, and of his niece 
Felicia, Countess Orlanoff, in Paris. Three 
photographs of a lovely dark-eyed child were 
in a drawer of his desk by themselves ; and 
Mark took home with him the most beautiful 
of the three to show to his young sister Kate, 
who kept house for him. They admired the 
soft, round, spirited little face together; and 
they wondered, never mentioning the subject to 
any outsider, whether it were possible that any 
one so lovely, any one who could live in Paris 
and had a title, would actually come to this 
little suburban neighborhood to live. Kate 
kept^he picture in her own room, and would 
not part with it for weeks, — not till she knew 
that Felicia, Countess Orlanoff, was really 
coming. 


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“yVb bridegroom's hand be mine to hold 
That is not Imed with yellow gold ; 
fMy love must , come on silken wings^‘'\ 
K ^With k ridal lights of diamond ringsjJ 
Not foul with kitchen smirch, 

With tallow-dip for torch." 


3 




Whittier. 





AULD acquaintance: 


21 


CHAPTER II. 

‘‘AULD ACQUAINTANCE.” 

ZOOMING out of the Episcopal church in 
Atlanta on a Sunday morning in early 
spring, two ladies who were strangers in the 
city encountered a tall, soldierly-looking young 
fellow in a lieutenant’s uniform, who took off 
his cap at sight of them, and promptly held 
out his hand. 

“ Mrs. Davidge, you promised once never to 
forget me. May I remind a lady of her prom- 
ise.?” 

The lady addressed, tall, slender, with an 
extraordinary blanched complexion and silvered 
hair, who looked almost supernaturally white 
in her widow’s weeds, started at the sound of 
this voice ; and then a smile broke over her 
face as she cordially gave her hand. 

“Why, Jack Stevens, I am delighted to see 


22 


THE GEORGIANS. 


you ! Are you stationed here ? ” she said. 
‘‘Bride!” 

Bride Davidge, whose quaint little Irish name 
had come to her through her father’s family, 
whence she had also inherited the sky-blue 
eyes, fresh color, and cheerful ways that were 
her chief attractions, met the lieutenant effu- 
sively. She was not a pretty girl, being tall 
and flat-chested ; but she had a fund of gayety 
and small social accomplishments which had 
made her “ the life of the garrison ” in her 
father’s time, though the colonel had been a 
tiger in his way. A spoiled, reckless, lively girl, 
overflowing with animal spirits and good-nature, 
she was, after all, less frivolous than she seemed ; 
and as all her faults, both of speech and of 
conduct, were open and unconcealed, her mother 
forgave these easily. She found no fault in 
her heart with Bride’s prompt flow of nonsense 
at sight of a former crony ; for Jack had come 
to Col. Davidge’s post just after leaving West 
Point, when Bride was fifteen and had not 
begun flirting. They had been good friends 
ever since ; and Mrs. Davidge, herself fond 
of society, had favored Bride’s friendships with 


*'AULD ACQUAINTANCES 23 

young men anid maidens the more for her 
father’s severity. Behind his back his daugh- 
ter had had her own way, and, now that he 
was dead, went unscolded, and told her 
mother every thing she would have told a 
sister. 

“But where are you staying.?” Jack asked 
as they reached the carriage, stepping forward 
to help Mrs. Davidge to enter the low open 
vehicle, upon whose torn brown cushions she 
sank down, becoming hidden by the cavernous 
hood which sheltered the two back seats. 

“Did you ever hear of Judge Wakefield’s 
place, The Pines .? ” Bride inquired, pausing on 
the curbstone. 

“No, never: stop; yes. You don’t mean — 
do you mean where that Russian widow has 
come to live .? A perfect beauty, — a princess, 
they say.” 

“Do they.? Well, I’ll tell you. She is just 
my first cousin, a countess.” 

“ My dear Miss Bride, the garrison is at your 
feet. The colonel himself is very hard hit ; he 
and Spencer saw her going ” — 

“I beg your pardon, Jack, because they 


24 


THE GEORGIANS. 


couldn’t have seen her, you kiaow : she never 
goes out.” 

‘‘Well, Spencer told me he saw her — did 
you ever meet Spencer } — drive away from the 
dep6t some ten days ago in an open carriage 
like this, with two maids and a ” — 

“ Fiddlesticks ! ” Bride exclaimed, breaking 
into a laugh. “ We were in a crowd, after all, 
and she did put her veil up after we were all 
in the carriage. But mamma and I were the 
maids, I suppose, in our gray veils and long 
dusters. I didn’t see any one myself ; I kept 
my veil down ; but she wanted the air, — she 
was faint. And they thought hor so beautiful, 
then ? ” 

“They just barely saw her; they said she 
was beautiful. Isn’t she.?” 

“ Of course ; she is lovely : but with coal-dust 
under her eyes, and her hair in a tumble, even 
a beauty looks mundane and mortal. In white, 
she’s a goddess.” 

“ And did you come with her .? ” 

“We did.” 

“ And I may come out .? ” 

“You may; but she never sees any one. I 


'^AULD ACQUAINTANCES 25 

pity you, Jack; but she wouldn’t. Bring the 
colonel to see me, however ; many a heart is 
caught in the rebound, and I’ve consoled too 
many poor wretches with the heart-ache not to 
know how nice it is to see them begin to enjoy 
life again.” 

The colonel’s a gray-beard ; he’d pat you 
on the head,” Jack retorted, his hand on the 
carriage-door. *‘But I’ll bring you somebody 
you’ll like,” looking in after Bride, as she drew 
up an old carriage-blanket over her mother’s 
knees, and settled herself in her place. “If 
you’ll promise not to like him too much. I’ll 
bring Capt. Ferguson : he thinks no woman 
can manage him.” 

“I’ll try my best to undeceive him,” Bride 
answered gayly ; but her voice was altered. She 
bent forward eagerly, and her face was pale. 

“Is it — what Capt. Ferguson, Jack.?” she 
asked quickly. 

“Theo — Theodoric, I believe it is. Know 
him .? ” 

But Uncle Seneca had taken up the whip as 
Jack had withdrawn from the door after his last 
promise ; and, the horses agreeing with him 


26 


THE GEORGIANS. 


that it was time to start, Bride was whirled off 
without answering. 

“What a windfall Jack Stevens is in this 
place ! ” she said cheerfully after a little pause. 
“I was just giving it over for the stupidest 
place in the country, and lo ! ” — 

“ I’m sorry it’s dull for you, darling,” Mrs. 
Davidge replied as Bride became silent ; “ but 
you were 7iot well in New York,” argumenta- 
tively. “You were out so much at night about 
Christmas, at missions and schools, with that 
dreadful, indefatigable young clergyman, — what 
was his name } — and there was no end to 
your dancing and sleigh-riding afterwards. I 
thought of nothing in life but your health when 
I promised to come South with Felise.” 

“I’m reconciled now, mamma, thank you. 
Ah, if Harry Porter and Mac Dorris were sta- 
tioned here too ! ” 

“Bride, suppose you say ‘Mr.’ or ‘Captain’ 
when you speak of men before your cousin 
Felise. She has so little idea of America, I’m 
afraid she will think you too free in your ways.” 

“ Oh, well, let her, mamma ! I think it’s non- 
sense not to make friends of men, just so long 


“ A ULD A CQ UAINTANCEr 2 7 

as you make them respect you. Foreign no- 
tions and foreign reserves haven’t brought poor 
Felicia much luck.” 

‘‘ Is it nothing to think of how irreproacha- 
ble, how perfect, her conduct has been } Her 
forei gn training told all through her trials ; 
while many an American wife would have made 
a fine scandal.” 

*‘Or quietly set herself free! No, mamma, 
if she had followed foreign examples she might 
have .been — not irreproachable. It was her 
American mother’s spirit that ruled her French 
nature, I fancy.” 

“ Bride, you must not let her know that you 
know any thing of her private affairs.” 

“ Oh I I shall not, though I don’t understand 
her. I don’t see the need for her grieving : I 
think that she ought to see company, and try 
to enjoy life. In New York she would be all 
the rage, if she’d stay there.” 

“ I think, myself, Virgil has made a mistake 
in asking her to live here. Of course there is 
nobody here to tempt her to leave her seclu- 
sion. He ought really to have left her quite 
free ; or given her money, not real estate.” 


28 


THE GEORGIANS, 


“ If he had no more money than he left us, I 
am glad that he didn’t divide it.” 

“Don’t speak slightingly, Bride, of what he 
left us,” protested her mother. “ I have never 
in my life — that is, since I married your father 
— been as free as I now am from care.” 

“ Poor mamma ! It is nice to have no debts. 
I feel like the people in good books, — ‘ poor, 
but honest.’ And then every week with Feli- 
cia is just twenty dollars clear gain ! I shall 
earn a new dress if I’m patient. No, don’t 
look so shocked, dear old lady ! I am nothing, 
you know, if not mercenary. Oh, if I were 
rich, — so rich I should fail to remember old 
times ; the days when I’ve given up a pair of 
new gloves in order to have strawberries and 
cake when you played for a party of us to 
dance, or when I counted the pennies in my 
purse to see if I could have celery instead of 
cabbage in the chicken-salad ! Ours was always 
the most hospitable house at the post, the boys 
said ; and how I have pinched to feed them to 
their hearts’ content ! ” 

A look of pain swept over the pallid, pathetic 
face of the mother. Invalid as she was when- 


AULD acquaintance: 


29 


ever her will yielded to bodily infirmity, she 
still maintained a cheerful face usually, and 
vivacity and intelligence shone at times in her 
dark eyes. But Bride’s reckless reminiscences 
were not ended. 

“ There was this one, — this Capt. Theo- 
doric Ferguson : he was only lieutenant then, 
mamma, and they said he supported his family. 
I have never kept any thing from you except 
how near I came to — liking him.” Her voice 
sank. He doesn’t know all that it cost me. 
But it was the year that papa was so hard up, 
and every thing went wrong ; and I told him 
I never would marry unless it were some one 
with money.” 

“ Oh, Bride ! When you know that I’ve told 
you that love was the only salvation in mar- 
riage ! You were too young, my darling, — 
you didn’t know what love meant, daughter.” 

‘^You married for love,” Bride said shortly. 
‘‘ You never were sorry ? I should have been.” 
And in her heart added, “When papa unfail- 
ingly grumbled over his sherry, while his wife 
and daughter drank water for economy.” 

B-ut even Bride dared not add this aloud. 



“ ly from the blind and faithless world aloof 
Nor fear its envy, nor desire its praise. 

But choose my path through solitary ways.” 

Michael Angelo, trans. by Southe\ 

“ I have formerly made some strong efforts to get and to 
deserve a friend : perhaps it were wiser never to attempt it, 
but live extempore, and look upon the ivorld only as a place 
to pass through, just pay your hosts their due, disperse a lit- 
tle charity, attd hurry on.” — PoPE to SwiFT. 




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MADAME ORLANOFF. 


33 


CHAPTER III. 

MADAME ORLANOFF. 

' I ^HE favorite low arm-chair of Mme. Orlan- 
off awaited her, near the old-fashioned 
brass fender that shut in the wood fire blazing 
upon the andirons ; but, on entering the room, 
she crossed to the window at first, and stood 
there looking out. The prospect was rather 
dreary, for a fine mist had been falling, and, 
though it had now ceased, the sun was still 
hidden ; and the grounds about the house 
were not beautiful enough to look fair in the 
dull weather. There was all the disorder 
of the average Southern country-place, — the 
weedy grass, the broken hedges and neglected 
shrubbery, straggling spiraea-bushes, rose-vines 
swaying from rotten trellis- work, and the 
wrecked stalks of tall ornamental grasses. 
Immediately about the house the broad walks 


34 


THE GEORGIA A^S. 


were bordered by a hedge of euonymus-bushes, 
tall, rank, and irregular of growth ; a straight, 
slim young magnolia and two heavy Norwegian 
pines were massed together at a little distance 
to the right. To the left, but out of sight, was 
an orchard of many-blossomed peach and plum 
trees, white and pink and fragrant ; but this 
daintiest bit of spring was all unseen : only 
a grove before the house, in which the car- 
riage-drive was lost to view, shut in the pros- 
pect with the sighing foliage of Georgia pines. 

The house itself was like scores of other 
houses, — a two-storied frame-building, with a 
broad piazza ^extending across the front, five 
large wooden columns being set along this 
piazza, and rising aloft to meet the projecting 
roof. The whole had once been painted white, 
but years had given to it a weather-beaten look, 
and subdued its earlier aggressive cleanliness. 
All of the rooms in this house were high and 
large and square, and none of them connected 
otherwise than with a small door. Some of the 
floors were bare, and some covered with faded 
carpets ; and the furniture, for the most part, 
was worn and plain ; but into the one room 


MADAME OR LA NO FF. 35 

in which the new mistress of The Pines now 
stood had been collected all the riches of the 
house. Beautiful old furniture which had been 
brought from the old Savannah homestead, 
since destroyed by fire, was here ; and articles 
once familiar to the mother’s eyes presented 
themselves to the daughter’s, — tall carved 
chairs ; an odd easy-chair with dark-green vel- 
vet cushions, and a sofa like it, wide and soft, of 
a quaint design ; a few fine engravings, in nar- 
row black frames ; on the mantel, heavy silver 
candlesticks ; and upon the floor a handsome 
rug, large, well-worn, but of real imperishable 
Turkish color and richness. There was a piano, 
which Mme. Orlanoff had hired for Bride, who 
sang ; and there was a work-basket of Bride’s 
on the table, overflowing with crewels and 
embroidery ; and between the windows was a 
single oil-painting — a graceful, girlish head, 
which former- visitors to The Pines had gener- 
ally thought to be ‘‘a fancy piece.” 

But, as Mme. Orlanoff turned from the win- 
dow, one might see, even with dull eyes, the 
striking likeness between herself and this por- 
trait of her beautiful American mother. She 


36 


THE GEORGIANS. 


was of medium height and graceful carriage, 
with hair dusky and full of waves, and with no- 
ticeable eyes, dark, Southern, and expressive. 
The oval of her delicate face was now a trifle 
wan ; her fine nose, the feature of which she 
had perhaps been a trifle, vain, looked almost 
too long ; and the under lip, fuller than the per- 
fect upper one, was not so soft and rosy as in 
happier years. But sweet and spirited still 
was the fair face, and fuH of decision and of 
charm. It was now but eight years since her 
marriage to that Russian nobleman whose name 
she bore ; and though since then she had led a 
life more eventful and brilliant than blest or 
happy, had travelled far, suffered much, and 
been much admired, her life was still on the 
morning side of thirty, and her beauty had 
altered rather than waned. 

Mme. Orlanoff, leaving the window, moved 
restlessly about the room. She hovered a 
moment over a salver of pansies, full of deep, 
rich colors. They had been brought two days 
before by a young girl, who had surprised Mme. 
Orlanoff promenading the piazza. Both had 
been startled, as they came face to face, — 


MADAME ORLAMOFF. 


37 


the mistress of The Pines turning in her walk, 
the visitor pausing upon the steps of the piazza. 
Then Felicia had noted the swift, embarrassed 
color in the frank, fair, girlish face, and had 
welcomed her guest courteously, accepted the 
neighborly kindness of the flowers cordially, 
and led Katherine Laurens into the room 
where her aunt and cousin sat, and there 
assisted them to put the young girl, who was 
rather shy, and slow of speech, at her ease. 
This was the only visitor Mme. Orlanoff had 
received ; her relatives had played hostesses in 
her stead : Bride only had rather recklessly 
questioned her as to her aversion to making 
friends, and been gently but firmly silenced. 

Mme. Orlanoff did not suspect the impres- 
sion she had made on her one favored guest. 

“ She looked like a princess in a royal robe, 
with her long black dress,” Kate had said to 
her brother, recognizing, with a woman’s in- 
stinct, the foreign art and skill that had gone 
to the fashioning of -that inexpensive “robe,” 
although she was only a simple Georgia girl 
yet in her teens, and utterly inexperienced in 
matters of dress. 


38 


THE GEORGIANS. 


Felicia stood looking down upon her pansies 
with a face as rich and fine in coloring as these 
her favorite flowers. Their velvet was not 
softer than her cheek, nor any shade they 
knew darker than her eyes and hair. She 
moved away again presently, glad to have the 
empty room in which to wander to and fro. 
She had felt relief when her aunt and cousin 
had retired for the afternoon ; her aunt to sleep 
off a headache, and Bride, who had decided 
that the mist was ceasing sufficiently, to take a 
horseback-ride on the one horse that was fit for 
such experiments. She had her social instincts, 
and it pleased her always to give pleasure to 
these kinswomen, who had met her so cordially; 
but the day was one of her bitter anniversaries, 
and best kept alone. 

After walking about for some time, a gleam 
of decision came to her face, and she turned 
aside to an old-fashioned secretary which stood 
by a side-door opening from this room into the 
grounds without. In this desk, which was al- 
ways locked, were her uncle’s business papers ; 
and she had placed within it a small locked box, 
whose golden key was attached to her watch- 


MADAME OELANOFF. 


39 


chain. Unfastening the secretary she took out 
the box, and sat down. For a time she re- 
mained motionless, and then turned the key. 
A slip of paper, written by her own hand, and 
dated three years before, lay first beneath her 
eyes, bearing these words : — 

“ When I can look at this face without either 
Jove or hate, without emotion of any kind, then 
I shall have conquered myself and fate.” 

She hesitated again, but for a moment ; then 
firmly drew forth a velvet case, unclosed it, 
and bent to look resolutely into the pictured 
eyes. 

The face disclosed was that of a middle- 
aged man, of fine physique. The eyes were 
small, and of a light blue ; the forehead high ; 
the hair thin and fair, but darker than the 
beard ; the face full : the luxuriant golden beard 
hid by its bright flow what she knew to be a 
sensual mouth and chin. The regular features, 
the warm coloring, made the face appear hand- 
some at first sight ; but there was a suspicion of 
cruelty in those small, intent, light eyes : and, 
fine as the miniature was, some reckless or 
angry hand must have dealt with it ; for it lay 


40 


THE GEORGIANS. 


in the case in three pieces, and a fragment was 
missing with the lower part of the decoration 
on the breast. 

Mme. Orlanoff looked at the picture, at 
first with resolute composure, though she had 
grown pale; then a hard look settled over her 
face. Eight years ago, that pale and happy 
face had been as an angel’s, when her hand had 
been placed in this man’s hand as his wife’s. 

‘‘Ivan, I do not love you, surely,” she said 
in a low, hushed voice. “ I do not even hate 
you now. The love is passed through the fire, 
and burned out. Its ashes — are contempt ! ” 
The bitter words brought back a faint color to 
her cheek. She was silent. Perhaps some 
tenderer memory arose ; the darkest, dreariest 
day may have had some rose-flushed films in 
the east before the rising of the shadowed sun. 
Her eyes wandered over the white brows, the 
straight nose, and golden beard. “Beautiful 
as a viking!” she said softly. “Yes, at least 
you were beautiful then, my — Gh ! no, no ! 
never my husband, in the sight of God I ” 

Some intenser emotion possessed her now. 
She shut the case impetuously, and pressed it 


MADAME ORLANOFF. 


41 


dose between her two palms ; the breath of this 
passion seized her, and brought her up like a 
flame, till she rose, wavering, and stood upon 
her feet. 

“Anna, Anna Vasilievna, it was not well 
done of you ! ” she exclaimed at last, resent- 
ment merging into reproaches, and reproaches 
into tears, as she sank down, hiding her face in 
the chair in which she had been seated. She 
wept passionately, and without restraint, until 
all her tears seemed spent in that unwonted 
overflow ; and, when her sobbing slowly ceased, 
she rose up feebly, her face not wholly calm 
even yet. She turned the key upon the minia- 
ture in haste, and left the room and the house 
for the hedged paths without, whence she re- 
turned after a long time with a little wet sand 
at her garment’s hem, and raindrops shaken 
from the trees upon her hair, but with her look 
full of sweet serenity once more. 

She opened the drawer of the secretary 
quietly ; and, taking therefrom a book, she sat 
down near her pansies, and began to read. 
The little volume, “ De Imitatione Christi,” was 
covered with faded violet velvet, embroidered 


42 


THE GEORGIANS. 


by hands now folded and quiet. Mme. Orlan- 
off, though not a Roman Catholic, had often 
kissed the tarnished gold of that embroidered 
crucifix ; and she read on devoutly now, line 
after line. 

Meanwhile steps approached from without ; 
but she heard nothing. A tall and dark-browed 
young man ascended the front-steps, and stood, 
within the doorway. It was Judge Wakefield’s 
friend and executor, Marcus Laurens ; and find- 
ing the door standing wide open, as usual, in 
true Southern fashion, he was about to enter, 
as he had been used to do, and had his eye 
already on the accustomed peg as he took off 
his hat, when he paused. 

“ Howdy, Mars’,” observed old Aunt Easter, 
who chanced to appear at the back-door. Glad 
to see you here, sah ; look like ole times come 
back agin. De ladies is gone out, all ’ceptin’ 
de madam ; an’ I seen her off by de magnolia- 
tree des a minit ago. Ef you’ll walk in. I’ll go 
tell her who ’tis.” 

Laurens nodded, and entered the room Aunt 
Easter indicated, in which Mme. Orlanoff was 
even now sitting. 


MADAME ORLANOFF. 


43 


The opening door scarcely disturbed the 
reader. Expecting nothing more than the en- 
trance of* some servant on an errand, she did 
not lift her eyes ; and, pausing just within the 
door, Mr. Laurens stood motionless. The bare 
room he remembered was altered : there were 
dark, rich colors in this, and hangings he had 
never seen before draped the long windows. 
Upon a slender gilded table stood a salver of 
glowing pansies ; and near this table, sunk in 
her low green-velvet chair as a pansy in its 
leaves, was a woman, whose face, beautiful, 
dark, and serious, was like the blossoms beside 
her. Her dress chanced to be fastened at the 
throat with a clasp of amethysts, that turned 
her toilet to a poem. Nothing was lost on 
him, though he could not define the charm of 
posture or circumstance, of shadowed cheek 
or rounded under lip, of dusky hair or brows. 
He only felt that here was beauty’s perfect 
flower ; and he stood still, his swarthy face 
unflushed, his gray eyes calm, but within his 
soul a stirring of that love of the beautiful and 
poetical which had lain half dormant through 
hard, prosaic years, without ideal or expression. 


44 


THE GEORGIANS. 


And then, as though his silent presence moved 
her, she turned that flower-like head, and raised 
her wondering, large, dark eyes. The likeness 
was made perfect! But her slow rising ad- 
monished him to speak, and then — 

“ I beg your pardon,” he said in the deep 
voice, restrained but powerful, that matched his 
stalwart body. “ I was directed to come in here 
on the supposition that you were without in the 
grounds. I trust that I am not intruding on 
you.” 

“ By no means, monsieur,” she answered 
courteously, and paused for him to give his 
name. The very faintest, most indefinable, for- 
eign accent clung to her speech. Laurens no- 
ticed it, and the little French word she had 
dropped, as simply an added touch to her 
strange loveliness. 

^ My name is Laurens,” he said in an explan- 
atory manner. ‘'You may not remember that I 
have had charge of the affairs of Judge Wake- 
field’s estate. I am come to say, that, whenever 
you wish to have an account of these affairs, I 
am ready. And, if I can be of use to you in 
any way, I hope you will call upon me. I am. 


MADAME ORLANOFF. 


45 


not only your only near neighbor, but — I was 
much attached to your uncle,” he added, as if 
to assure her that she had inherited a claim 
upon him. 

“ I believe that I owe you an apology, as well 
as many thanks, Mr. Laurens,” Mme. Orlanoff 
replied. “ I think you have called before, and 
that I failed to receive you. Pray pardon me. 
Without wishing to offend any of my uncle’s 
friends, I have allowed myself to be excused to 
formal visitors. It is only continuing a former 
habit : I have the selfishness of a recluse. I 
hope that you will pardon me for having 
troubled you to call twice.” 

This was spoken quite deliberately, very 
amiably, and with a delicate shade of emphasis 
on the last “ you ” which excluded him, tempo- 
rarily, from the visitors she felt at liberty to 
decline ; while, at the same time, Laurens felt 
dimly that he was thanked for his friendly in- 
tentions, and desired to attend strictly to busi- 
ness. 

He sat down at a little distance, as she in- 
vited him to be «eated and resumed her chair. 

“It is no great distance from my house to 


46 


THE GEORGIANS. 


yours,” he said quietly. “I can, come at any 
time that suits your convenience. Do you care 
to go into the matter at present } ” 

There was a slight pause. Undoubtedly, if 
she had been consulted, this afternoon would 
not have been chosen for business questions. 
But she was reluctant to multiply occasions of 
contact with strangers, and she felt that she 
should not ask this grave, dignified gentleman 
to wait upon her apparent caprices. He had 
made a certain impression upon her. 

If there is any thing I ought to do, I shall 
be glad for you to tell me,” she said simply. 

“There is not much,” he said: “only the 
land — I was obliged to make some arrange- 
ments about renting it out at the first of the 
year. I should like to know that you approve 
of this.” 

“I am sure that you have done what is best. 
Would you care — would it fatigue you to ex- 
plain to me the — the system — custom — of 
renting lands here ” 

He smiled faintly, though his grave face 
seldom altered. 

“ It is very simple. People who have large 


MADAME ORLAADFF. 


47 


plantations, and also those who possess only a 
few acres which they do not wish to cultivate 
themselves, parcel out their land into lots of 
ten, twenty, or thirty acres, rarely more, and 
rent these lots to poor people, negroes or 
whites, receiving at the end of the year a per- 
centage of the crops, or a sum of money. In 
your case I have been able to rent the land to 
trustworthy colored men, and have agreed that 
they are to furnish themselves with every thing, 
and pay you a rental in money. I think this 
will be the best arrangement for you — for a 
lady. You could not well afford to have an 
overseer for so small a number of acres ; and, 
if you chance to get an untrustworthy negro on 
the land, he may cheat you by making away with 
part of the crop secretly.” 

She listened attentively, and then, Is this a 
small plantation } ” she asked. 

‘‘ It is not a plantation at all,” he answered, 
again smiling very slightly. “ It ds something 
more manageable ; and, being so near the city, 
it is more valuable than a larger place remote 
from business-centres. Your uncle and I called 
ourselves ‘small farmers.’ There are about a 


48 


THE GEORGIANS, 


hundred and seventy acres belonging to you, 
not all under cultivation : some is woodland.” 

“ Do you — excuse me, I ask to know the 
custom of the neighborhood — is your farm 
rented out V , * 

“No, madam : I work on a different plan. I 
am simply a farmer, and give my time to my 
place. Your uncle was also a professional , man, 
having business in town, and he rented most 
of his land. I hire a few laborers by the year, 
and others in the busy season, furnish fertiliz- 
ers, mules, farming-implements, seeds, and so 
forth, and superintend all that goes on.” 

“ Is it more profitable to do so } ” she asked 
serenely. 

“If you understand your business, and the 
year is a good one.” 

“Which plan is most profitable for the la- 
borers } ” 

“A clever, responsible man can make more 
by renting, I suppose ; but many are not capa- 
ble of managing for themselves. For some, it 
is best to do as my men do, — have the security 
of a roof over their heads, rations weekly, and 
a little money clear at the year’s end.” 


MADAME ORLANOFF. 


49 


“ They all live on your land ? ” 

“Some do. Others prefer neither to draw 
rations, nor to live on their master’s land.” 

“All this is very interesting to me,” she said 
after a pause. “When I am capable of it, I 
should like to manage this place in your way.” 

“You would need an honest, experienced, 
man ” — 

“ Pardon ! I mean, I should like to do it,” 
she interrupted, a little spark coming to her 
cheek. “ Do you see } ” she went on : “I shall 
be quite alone, after my relatives go ; and one 
must have some object, some occupation. For 
me, I have but a woman’s ambition : a little 
amusement, a little power, the chance to do 
some little good, — it would not be impossi- 
ble .? ” 

She had put together her two little hands, 
and looked towards him appealingly. The 
earnestness of her own preferences, her reviv- 
ing interest in trifles, were part of the great 
good which the change she had made was ef- 
fecting : she felt a strange, awakening activity 
of her energies ; a hundred delicate, vivid 
touches were putting color into her darkened 


50 


THE GEORGIANS, 


sky. To-day the clouds of the past had swept 
over her once more ; but now, again, came the 
quickening brightness. She did care to be 
amused, to give pleasure, to have power, — in 
at least a small circle ; at least among her 
work-people, among the poor, — not in society : 
that was no more to concern her. She looked 
at her adviser with no ennuiy no indifference or 
coldness, in her dark eyes. 

Before he had framed a reply their tete-dL-tite 
was ended abruptly by the hasty entrance of 
Miss Bride Davidge, all in a whirl of pale blue 
ribbons, trailing garments, and wind-blown 
feathers. Mark glanced up at the rosy, angu 
lar, fiat-chested girl, tall and glowing, who 
burst in upon them ; but his impression of her 
person was blurred by her hurried, impulsive 
speech. 

“Cousin Felise, Miss Laurens is dreadfully 
burned ! Oh ! can’t you do something to help 
her.^ I came by at the time, and I’ve just 
galloped home. Is this Mr. Laurens } ” turn- 
ing swiftly on Laurens, who had started to his 
feet, and now, after pausing one bewildered 
moment, was about to leave the roorn. “ She 


MADAME OELANOFF, 


51 


thought you were here. She told me not to 
alarm you, but merely ask you to come. Her 
hands and arms are burned dreadfully ; but she 
say she wants only some oil. Felise, have you 
any .? ” 

Laurens, turned also to Mme. Orlanoff as 
Bride asked this. Felicia was biting her lip. 
A look full of kindness met his ; then, ceasing 
to hesitate, ‘‘I have experience in these mat- 
ters. Could I help you } Would you trust me 
to go to her.?” she asked, coming nearer to 
him. “If there is no one else — if I should 
not be in the way ” — 

“ Thank you : if you would come with me 
it would be the greatest of favors,” Laurens 
answered decidedly. “ My horse is here ; if 
yours is saddled ” — 

“ It is waiting,” Bride said, as unconscious as 
Laurens of the fact that they had not yet been 
introduced. “Mr. Laurens, your horse is not 
tied : he is walking about on the grass. Did 
you tie him .? ” 

“I forget — he will come to me, though,” 
Laurens answered half absently. “ I will wait 
for you, madam,” he said to Felicia, and left 
the room with a bow to Bride Davidge. 


52 


THE GEORGIANS. 


‘^O Felise, here’s your riding-skirt!” Bride 
said, promptly stepping out of her borrowed 
train. “Will you just have my belt, and I 
needn’t run up for the basque of your habit 
You must hurry: poor thing! she was suffer- 
ing agonies. Shall I get you some oil } — 
What, my hat } ” hurriedly removing the wide 
Gainsborough hat, with all its soft plumes, 
from her head. “ O Felise ! it becomes you, — 
you beauty ! ” Bride cried, so excited that she 
lost all reserve. But Felicia, unheeding, caught 
up her long skirt, and, refusing Bride’s second 
offer to look for the oil, went out quickly, and 
mounted her horse, just as Laurens caught his 
own and flung himself into the saddle. No 
woman, Laurens had thought, could so swiftly 
equip herself ; yet she was perfectly habited, 
to all seeming, while the hat she had taken at 
haphazard suited and heightened her beauty; 
and never in her happiest days did Madame la 
Comtesse Orlanoff look fairer, in a man’s ad- 
miring eyes, than now as she dashed down the 
shady road beside this stolid-seeming Georgian, 
who spoke to her not a word. 


“ The herbs we seek to heal our woe 
Familiar by our pathway grow ; 
Our common air is balm." 


Keble. 





0 


r 



A SOUTHERN HOME. 


55 


CHAPTER IV. 

A SOUTHERN HOME. 

' 1 ''HIS is a poor way to receive company,” 
Kate Laurens said ruefully, trying to 
smile, when Mme. Orlanoff, whom Laurens had 
briefly heralded, came into the shabby, sun- 
shiny room. The young girl was sitting, or 
rather half lying, on a worn and springless 
lounge, her elbows resting on the head of it, 
her arms held up, and bound up with raw cot- 
ton and bands of old linen ; her fair face was 
drawn with suffering, and the smile she at- 
tempted was piteous. 

“Don't think of a guest, but of a nurse,” 
Mme. Orlanoff answered her gently. “ I have 
nursed some one else who was burned' worse 
than you are, I trust. Will you not be afraid 
to submit to me ? ” 

“ Shall you hurt very much } ” Kate asked, 


56 THE GEORG/ANS. 

shrinking a little, but holding her hands 
out. 

“Much less than you think,” said Felicia. 
“Please let some one bring water, — cold 
water ” — to Laurens, who stood by, and who 
had winced a little as she lightly touched 
Kate’s arm to unwind the bandages. He 
turned to pass on the order ; but a middle-aged 
colored woman, who had been hovering over 
Kate till they entered, disappeared at once. 
“ How happened it } ” asked Mme. Orlanoff, 
unflinchingly removing the cotton, after one 
more command to the servant, who had placed 
a bucket of water beside her. 

Kate lifted her eyes to the beautiful face, so 
composed and kind, bending near her, and tried 
not to flinch. 

“A child in the yard caught fire,” she said, 
as steadily as she could speak, — “Aunt Nan- 
cy’s child,” nodding towards the servant, who 
entered, bringing with a doubtful air a large 
tin basin. “ It was not hurt,” Kate went on 
slowly : “ oh ! but I burnt my hands fighting 
the fire. Ah ! what’s this } ” 

For Mme. Orlanoff, who had unbound both 


A SOUTHERN HOME. 


57 


her arms, had now filled the tin basin with 
water ; and before Kate knew it the basin was 
set in her lap, and both arms were submerged 
in cold water ! 

After the first shock, relief came to her in 
greater degree every moment ; but her wide- 
open hazel eyes were fixed on Felicia with 
wonder and trepidation. 

Law, mistis, dat’s de wust ting in d6 worl’ ; 
cole water fo’ bu’n ! ” said Aunt Nancy, who 
could no longer restrain herself. She had been 
Kate’s nurse, and was privileged. 

“ It will hurt awfully when my arms have to 
come out, won’t it ? ” Kate .asked ; while Lau- 
rens had turned away suddenly, as if bereft of 
all hope by this most mad proceeding. 

“ The worst of your pain is all over,” Mme. 
Orlanoff answered quite calmly, sitting down 
before Kate, and meeting her eyes with a 
smile which. re-assured her. “The water should 
be very cold, and if ice can be brought I should 
like it ; but your hands will be healed very 
quickly. If you grow chilly I must wrap you 
up warmly ; and when you grow tired of hold- 
ing the basin we will put on cloths wet in ice- 


58 


THE GEORGIANS. 


water, and change them every two minutes, at 
first. You will have one bad night ; that is 
all.” 

Are you sure } ” Kate cried, wondering. 

‘‘ Sure } There will be no scar, — not a trace ; 
it will be quite well in a day, — in two days at 
the farthest,” she answered. Do not doubt 
it. Do you see any scar on my face 1 ” and 
she bent forward, and turned her right cheek 
towards Kate for inspection. “ I was burned 
there, — my right side — my arm;” and she 
laid her white wrist, the sleeve of her dress 
being pulled up a little, on the side of Kate’s 
basin of water. 

She Tad forgotten the presence of the 
brother, who turned on her his keen gray eyes. 
She flushed slowly, and drew down her sleeve 
with her left hand, leaning back in her chair. 

And my hands will be healed by cold 
water.?” Kate half asked, half asserted, with 
eagerness. 

I assure you. The doctor who healed me 
convinced many sceptics,” she answered; “and 
then,” she added, the slight cloird on her face 
passing from it, “ I cured a poor child who was 


A SOUTHERN HOME. 59 

burned, — a little girl in a cotton-mill, — whom 
no one else cared for.” 

A cotton-mill } Here ? ” 

“Oh, no! In Russia.” 

“Are there cotton-mills there.? I had no 
idea. Do tell us something about Russia : any 
thing will be news to such stay-at-homes,” 
Kate said. 

Mme. Orlanoff did not reply. She bent 
forward, and touched the water in the basin. 

“Is there ice .? ” she asked quietly. 

“Not a bit,” Kate said promptly. “Aunt 
Nancy, go draw some cold water, — from the 
north-east corner of the well, mind you.” 

“ You are easier, Kate .? ” Laurens asked in 
his low, full voice. There was a note of ten- 
derness in it that made the brief question 
caressing. 

“So much easier, so much more comforta- 
ble,” Kate responded. “ If the water were just 
a bit colder ” — 

“The next shall be,” Mme. Orlanoff said. 

“And the next shall have ice,” Laurens 
added, rising from the chair which he had 
taken a moment before. 


6o 


THE GEORGIANS. 


There is none nearer than town,” Kate 
protested. 

“ I am going to town,” Laurens answered 
serenely, buttoning his coat about that straight, 
bro^d body of his as he spoke. 

A few minutes later the sound of his horse’s 
feet were heard, and Kate murmured, — 

“That is like Mark. He has been to town 
twice to-day now ; and yet he would go fifty 
times if I needed the least thing. He always 
was so. Mamma was so long ill, — for years ; 
and Mark was the best nurse you can fancy.” 

“ He is your only brother } ” Mme. Orlanoff 
asked, interesting herself in Kate’s confidences. 

“Yes, the only one. He is all I have. He 
is father, mother, and sister to me ; and since I 
left school he has taught me. This winter 
we’ve been reading Tacitus.” 

Mme. Orlanoff here poured fresh water to 
that in which Kate’s arms were resting ; and 
when she sat down again, and began to fold 
up the bands of linen that had formerly beer 
used in the bandaging, Kate said wistfully, — 

“ The world is the book I should like to read. 
I ‘want to see all the great countries some day. 


A SOUTHERN HOME. 


6l 


— Russia, Norway and Sweden, France, Eng- 
land, and Italy, Egypt, Syria, Greece : there’s 
no end to them.” 

‘‘I have been in the East,” Mme. Orlanoff 
said, speaking slowly. “ Will it serve to amuse 
you if I tell you of any of the places you ask 
for.?” 

Oh, what a piece of a fairy-tale ! ” Kate 
cried delightedly. ‘‘ Please begin. Tell me first 
about Russia. Were you there before the serfs 
were emancipated .? ” 

“No; they were set free long ago, — about 
the time that the slaves were freed here. I 
have heard something about those old times ; 
but then, slavery is the same the world over, I 
suppose. There were good masters here as 
well as there, no doubt ; there were tragedies 
briefly enacted, and a master 'or steward killed 
sometimes, there ; but such things as cruel 
overseers and occasional risings were known 
here, I think.” 

“Then you put the Southern and the Russian 
masters on the same level .? ” Kate asked. 

“Not precisely,” Mme. Orlanoff said. “For, 
if I may believe what I have heard through my 


62 


THE GEORGIANS. 


own kinspeople, Southern men and women are 
more tender-hearted and refined than most 
Russians. No people, as a rule, are so fond of 
money to spend, or spend so little at home, as 
the Russian nobility ; and, while I believe many 
of the negroes speak with pride and affection 
of their old masters, you will find few moujicks 
who have any reason to be bound by affection 
to their former lords. It is true that they are 
servile in their deference to him ; they are very 
lazy, and beg all they can from their ‘little 
father,’ as they call him ; but they are very 
insincere.” 

“When they have reason to be grateful, are 
they not so.?” Kate asked. 

“You will be answered yes and no, if you 
ask that, just as you might here, according to 
my aunt. But on the whole I think they are 
more degraded ; they drink more vodki^ and lie 
and steal worse, than any negroes I have heard 
of here.” 

“And they are white too,” Kate said almost 
as if awestruck. 

Mme. Orlaiioff smiled involuntarily. 

“You would not feel a Russian moujick to 


A SOUTHERN HOME. 


63 


be ‘ a man and a brother ’ any more than you 
can accept a negro as one,- I imagine,” she 
said. 

The door of the room which gave on the 
back porch here opened a little, and a small 
kinky head was put in, a pair of black eyes 
flashed an inquisitive look into the room, and 
then disappeared, a faint giggling being heard 
without. A frown crossed Kate’s fair white 
brows ; but the moment after a voice was heard, 
scolding loudly. 

‘‘ Y ou little impident good-for-nuttin ! ef you 
dar to put yo’ head en dat do’ agin, ef I don’ jam 
it clean off yo’ shoulders ! You’se a plague-spot, 
you is ! I lay I’ll knock some sense inter you 
yit!” 

The sound of scampering feet and laughter 
followed these direful threatenings ; and the 
next minute Nancy appeared in the doorway, 
her face full of apology, her accents honeyed. 

“ Please ’m, ladies, you mus’ scuse dat young 
’un,” she said blandly. “ She’s dat set up, kase 
she’s mos’ got bu’nt to def, dat dey ain’t no 
holdin’ of her. I’m jes’ goin’ to wear her out 
t’morrow. Miss Kate ; she’s gittin’ too biggitty 


64 the GEORGIANS. 

fo’ me ; but I ain’t goin’ to beat her t’day, ef 
you say not.” 

Nancy wanted to beat the child — or pre- 
tended she did — because she was the cause of 
my being burned,” Kate said to her guest. 

“She needed a heatin’, Miss Kate,” Nancy 
protested : “ ef she hadn’ been foolin’ roun’ my 
chips an’ light’ood she wouldn’ a’ done dis yer 
mischief. I don’ see how it was she ’scaped 
roastin’ herse’f anyhow.” 

“ Can I see the child } ” Mme. Orlanoff asked, 
ready to be amused. 

“Law, mrstis, she ain’ fittin’ fur a lady to 
look at,” Nancy protested. 

“Go and bring her,” Kate said imperi- 
ously. 

Nancy departed, and in a moment returned, 
trying to lead into the room a little darky with 
very big bright eyes, who was evidently torn 
between bashfulness and curiosity. The child 
was about seven years old ; she had' on a torn 
blue-checked homespun dress, and was bare- 
footed. The dress was scorched badly in front, 
and was so burnt on one side that it hung in 
rags, displaying the brown polished limbs; 


A SOUTHERN HOME, 65 

“Her ap’un wuz bu’nt clean off’n her, mis- 
tis,” Nancy apologized. 

“ Come here, Hahseeny ; nobody is going to 
hurt you,” Kate said, half kindly, half impa- 
tiently. 

Lahseeny — whose correct name was Lar- 
ceny, a “ pretty spellin’-book name ” selected 
for her in utter ignorance of its meaning or 
pronunciation — hung back, with her finger 
in her mouth and her eyes on the strange 
lady. 

“ Is she not hurt at all } ” Mme. Orlanoff 
asked. “ How did it all happen } ” 

“ I can hardly tell,” Kate said. “ I happened 
to be on the back porch when I heard Lah- 
seeny scream, and saw her dress all on fire, as 
I thought. I ran out, and caught her some- 
how, and kept beating the fire with my hands. 

• I remember I took care not to let the fire reach 
her head. That is all that I know. My sleeves 
were rolled up, — I had been in the kitchen ; 
that is how my arms suffered,” she added, with 
an ingenuous blush. 

“ Lahseeny, can you sing ^ ” Mme. Orlanoff 
asked, looking at the small elf, who was twist- 


66 


THE GEORGIANS. 


ing her wrist in her mother’s hand as if to 
escape. 

“ I kin sing heaps o’ things,” Lahseeny 
announced with much confidence, ceasing to 
struggle. 

“You done forgot yo’ putties’ songs,” her 
mother protested, wishing it to be thought that 
Lahseeny had higher accomplishments than she 
could display. 

“ Sing any thing you like,” Mme. Orlanoff said. 

Lahseeny took her finger out of her mouth, 
snapped her black eyes, and, opening her mouth 
to a surprising extent, carolled bravely, — 

“ Babtis’, Babtis’ is my name, 

Babtis’ tell I die ; 

I’m boun’ to live in de Babtis’ chu’ch, 

En eat de Babtis’ p.ie.” 

“Don’t, Lahseeny,” Kate interrupted : “sing 
your Methodist song.” 

Lahseeny laughed, a funny little short gig- 
gle, and changed the tune : — 

“ Oh, come, my fren’s, en go wid me ; 

■ I’se happy now as I wan’s to be ; 

I’se happy, I’se happy, 

I’se happy as I wan’s to be ! 


6 / 


A SOUTHERN HOME., 

Ef you wan’s to lead a happy life, 

Jes’ marry a Meth’dis’ shoutin’ wife ; 

I’se happy, I’se happy, 

I’se happy as I wan’s to be ! 

“ ’Piscopalians, dey won’ do, 

Dey fiddle en dance de whole night froo ; 

I’se happy, I’se happy, 

I’se happy as I wan’s to be ! 

“Hard-shell Babtis’, dey won’ do” — 

She paused a moment, hesitated, and repeat- 
ed, — 

“If you wan’s to lead a happy life, 

Jes’ marry a Meth’dis’ shoutin’ wife; 

I’se happy, I’se happy, 

I’se happy as I wan’s to be ! ” 

“I done forgot the rest, Miss Kate,” she 
added demurely. 

“Very well, you may go, Lahseeny,” Kate 
said; “and, Nancy, you bring some cold fresh 
water.” 

“You acted like a heroine in saving that 
child ; yet I think you don’t like her,” Mme. 
Orlanoff said as Nancy went out.^ 

“ Like her } I never think of her. Of course 
I don’t want her hurt ; but I don’t like negro 


68 


THE GEORGIANS. 


children,” Kate said. don’t like the negroes. 
They make me impatient. Mamma never got 
used to them, — she was a Northerner, you 
know, — and I have been to school North, so 
I haven’t lived always amongst them ; and they 
try me fearfully sometimes. I can’t go on 
and not see, and not care, like most people. I 
couldn’t at school, among girls, like the very 
pleasantest of them, unless I could trust her. 
I wish there was a country in which every one 
acted and spoke the truth.” 

The little wrinkle had come again between 
the fair brows. Kate’s own lovely, girlish, 
candid face told its own story of purity, firm- 
ness, and high character. The fault and the 
charm of such a nature in youth — inexperience 
of life’s temptations, intolerance of poorer and 
lower ideas — were Kate’s in all their complete- 
ness. 

Mme. Orlanoff felt drawn to the girl. Her 
own 'sweet, upright girlhood, with all its faded 
aspirations, came back to her for a moment. 
The love of purity and goodness, together with 
the doubt of their permanence in character, 
were blent in her now. The world had robbed 


A SOUTHERN HOME. 69 

her of many illusions ; in the whole of it there 
was no one whom she loved or confided in. 

“ Had you many school-friends } ” she asked 
of Kate, as if idly. 

“Not many. A good many seemed fond of 
me then ; but only two correspond with me 
now, and one will soon drop me, — she’s going 
to be married. But Mark — I never did care 
for them as for Mark — says I ought to make 
friends where I live ; that I ought to try to like 
the people who go to the same church with us. 
But I can’t.” 

She looked at Mme. Orlanoff wistfully. 

“ Can you like everybody 'I ” she asked. 

“A little,” Mme. Orlanoff said, smiling rather 
sadly. Then she leaned forward impulsively, 
and kissed Kate’s cheek. “I like you very 
much,” she said softly. 

Kate flushed royally, looking both pleased 
and abashed, much as if a lover had for the 
first time touched her cheek with his lips. 
Her lovely, innocent pleasure at this overture 
enhanced Mme. Orlanoff’s delight in her. 

“You are very good to me,” Kate said, 
almost humbly. “It is so good of you to do 


70 THE GEORGIANS. 

all this for me ! Are you going to stay with 
me to-night ? I am almost ashamed to ask so 
much” — 

Her eloquent eyes said the rest. 

“ I shall stay while you need me, my dear,” 
Mme. Orlanoff said, taking her resolve on the 
instant. 

When Laurens came back with the ice, they 
had supper. It was a very informal affair. 
Mme. Orlanoff, who had now swathed Kate’s 
arms in linen bandages, wet every few minutes 
with ice-water, kept her patient on the sofa, 
and wrapped her up warmly, for Kate was 
indeed chilly; and, sitting beside her with a 
tray in her lap, Felicia fed Kate with hot 
waffles and toast and tea, and pretended to 
eat her own supper also. Laurens sat at the 
table alone, behind Mme. Orlanoff’s chair, and 
divided his attention between his plate and 
the couple at the sofa, but went through the 
form of enjoying his evening meal. He was 
surprised to see Kate so absorbed in the 
stranger, and yet was delighted. Mme. Or-, 
lanoff was talking of France now, — of her 
childhood’s home ; of a visit to Brittany ; of an 


A SOUTHERN HOME. 


71 

old aunt of her father’s, who had been very 
good to her as a little girl. An expression of 
childlike vivacity revisited her face, and she 
had ceased to wonder at her own enjoyment of 
the evening and her melting reserve. 


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“ / believe / know now what kindly feeling (gemiithlich) 
means: contrivance and forethought in the smallest matters ; 
a perfect placing of one's self in the position, necessities, and 
moods of another; the poetry of the heart, the imagination of 
feeling." — B. Auerbach. 



THE LAURENSES. 


75 


CHAPTER V. 

THE LAURENSES. 

1 \y/r ARCUS LAURENS, Sen., was born in 
Georgia, in 1825, on the Laurens planta- 
tion, near Augusta, one of the finest places in 
that section of country. He had grown up to 
be a tall, studious young fellow, graver and more 
serious than his companions, and had been sent 
to a Northern college by his father, and had 
there studied law, more by way of giving a 
finish to his education than because his father 
had any idea of his taking a deep interest in his 
profession ; but he married the daughter of one 
of his college professors, and when he came 
home with his bride he settled down in Augus- 
ta, and applied himself as seriously to earning 
his own living as if he were not the son of a 
rich man, who looked upon it as natural that 
his house and his income should provide for his 


76 


THE GEORGIANS. 


children. There was little of the father’s large, 
careless, genial spirit, in the son : a natural 
gravity had rested from babyhood upon the 
boy ; a stolid demeanor, a calm and healthy 
quiet of intellect, — for he was not a bookish 
lad till well in his teens, — and a strong sense 
of justice which ruled every boyish transaction, 
marked his early youth. He was called “the 
judge ” from the time he was three years old, 
as his jolly, stout old father told afterwards, 

• when the title had corae to him in reality. 
This father, a bluff, hospitable, jovial gentle- 
man, had his own peculiarities, and was ex- 
tremely tendef to all his own prejudices and 
eccentricities : for instance, having once left off 
his stock after donning fresh linen, and fancying 
the effect, old Seaton Laurens never after wore 
either stock, necktie, or cravat ; neither at his 
' daughter’s wedding, nor when his great portrait 
was painted, would he don one ; and with a 
plain standing collar, and simple gold button 
at the throat, he was painted for future genera- 
tions to look upon. 

When his only son, Marcus, took up the 
practice of. the law, and afterwards bought a 


THE LAURENSES. 


77 


fine house in Augusta, being then a judge in 
fact, and the youngest on the bench, the old 
gentleman grumbled a little, but declared a re- 
gretful admiration for the boy who could not 
be contented to live with niggers around him 
all the time,” as the old planter said. 

The war came. Neither -father nor son had 
been secessionists at the beginning ; but, when 
the very -imminent shock of war was felt, the 
old man’s heart took fire, and he went with his 
State in earnest. And when, as months rolled 
by, and he found that his son, his only son, his 
beloved, whose growing unpopularity he saw 
and felt, was not moved as he had been, the 
father came by degrees to consider his son a 
traitor, as others considered him. They had 
both made anti-secession speeches in the begin- 
ning, but the judge had dared to remain con- 
sistent. An unpleasant feeling grew up be- 
tween the two, — between the hot head of sixty 
and the cool one of six-and-thirty ; and in ’63 
there came a definite and never-to-be-healed 
breach between them. The father had always 
been courteous to his daughter-in-law, though 
never particularly fancying her ; but he said 


78 


THE GEORGIANS. 


something severe about the Northern wife, who, 
to his thinking, came of the blood of ‘‘ the en- 
vious and the oppressors,” to his son one day. 
Exactly what it was, no one ever knew ; but 
they parted in anger, never to meet again. 
Judge Laurens and his family removed to 
Atlanta; and when Sherman came the judge 
lost his house, his fine law-library, and almost 
all that he had in the world except his wife and 
children and a couple of hundred acres of land 
near the city. Here he built a plain brick 
house soon after the war, and tried farming in 
his leisure, for he had little law-business now ; 
and here he died before he had ever been recon- 
ciled to his father. 

Old Seaton Laurens was greatly shocked at 
the news of his son’s death. He himself was a 
hale and hearty man, young in his own eyes, 
and likely to live another quarter of a century ; 
and it was incomprehensible to him that his 
boy was gone in the flower of his years. He 
wrote to his son’s widow kindly, and asked her 
to make her home with him, and to bring her 
children ; but Marcus, jun., would not permit 
any softer reply than a positive refusal. He 


THE LA [/TENSES. 


79 


was not twenty then, but he was able to sup- 
port his mother and little sister, he said, and 
he devoted himself to that duty. His mother, 
whose health was feeble, relied on him impli- 
citly. He was much like his father in his mas- 
sive physique and in his calm demeanor, though 
of a more passionate nature. He aspired to be 
a perfectly just man, and he was in reality a 
little hard and cold to most people ; so that he 
was not beloved by many, though trusted by all 
with whom he had to do. Stifling every selfish 
desire, silent as to every personal hope, he was 
unfailingly courteous and kind at home ; but he 
had added to his own sternness by persisting in 
refusing every overture of his grandfather’s, 
and brooding over his self-justification for this 
action. And denying himself, in consequence 
of it, the studies, the pleasures, and the ambi- 
tions that his nature craved, and working with 
the dogged faithfulness which his strong sense 
of duty required of him, he was not a happy 
man, nor one at peace with himself. Years 
afterwards he looked back with the dreamy 
wonder of musing middle age at those quiet 
days of youth, and learned that he had enjoyed, 


8o 


THE GEORGIANS. 


more than he knew, some of his daily surround- 
ings. No mountains in far foreign lands were 
ever so dear to his eyes as those familiar blue 
heights of the Kennesaw which he saw from 
his own sloping fields ; no brook’s music was as 
sweet as that which ran through ferny banks 
beneath an ancient beech, where he had lain 
through many a Sunday afternoon, watching 
the sky through green leaves, and thinking* 
' thoughts no mortal guessed but he. He did 
not know, then, how he loved the sight of wind 
waving a field of ripening rye : he did not know 
why the unrest and longing quieted at times, 
when his unconscious love of color and beauty 
was satisfied, as he paused to look at the slopes 
of rich and fruitful' earth, some fair with tender 
green, some bare, and dark, turned freshly by 
the plough ; the fire of young buds in the 
wooded hollows, maples and oaks and syca- 
mores with their fringes and tufts of spring"^ 
foliage, bright against dark evergreens ; a thou- 
sand new pine-cones shining fresh and green, 
and a cloud of blossoms down the orchard-way. 

Mrs. Laurens died while Kate was away at a 
.Northern school at which Mark had placed her 


THE LAURENSES. 


8l 


as soon as he could afford it. The young man 
had been well taught in his father’s and moth- 
er’s creed as a lad ; and, whatever secret here- 
sies individuality had developed in him as in 
other men, he believed sincerely in his mother’s 
God. He felt that she, who had suffered, now 
rejoiced, and mourned her with no bitterness 
therefore ; but he missed her sorely, and after 
a few months he yielded to Kate’s urgent en- 
treaties, and let her come back to Georgia to 
make a home for him. 

This had been his life up to the day when 
he met Mme. Orlanoff. Repressed, chaste, 
monotonous, manly years of hard work had 
been his ; and then at last he had met a beau- 
tiful and kindly woman, whose foreign life had 
removed her from local political prejudice, and 
whose very air suggested another world, wider 
and greater than all that he had known ; and 
from the first moment that the reserved, un- 
developed, but forceful nature caught a glimpse 
of one so gently self-poised, so exquisite in 
expression, — nay, from the first insts.nt that 
his eyes had rested upon that beautiful and 
flower-like face, — his heart had beaten with a 


82 


THE GEORGIANS, 


fuller throb, and the tragedy of life had begun 
to shape itself for him. 

Mme. Orlanoff sat in a rocking-chair on 
the little front veranda at eight o’clock on the 
next night, with Kate Laurens’s head against 
her knee, and her eyes resting now upon that 
nut-brown hair her hand touched lightly, now 
upon the western sky where a young moon was 
slowly sinking. Laurens sat at a little distance 
under the shadow of a glorious climbing rose 
which draped the whole front of the piazza, and 
was the one grace of the dull, shabby-looking 
brick house. The delicate outlines of the 
freshly budded leaves flickered over the moon- 
lit floor, and obscured his figure ; and under 
this cover his eyes rested unseen upon Mme. 
Orlanoff’s face. Neither she nor Kate had 
had much rest the night before ; and Kate 
leaned wearily and confidingly to-night against 
her strange new friend. Mrs. and Miss Davidge 
had come to see them to-day, and had been 
astonished by Kate’s rapidly-proceeding recov- 
ery. The pain had left her, and her hands 
were only a little red : it was scarcely neces- 


THE LAURENSES. 


83 


sary for Mme. Orlanoff to stay another night ; 
but her relatives gayly excused her from all 
duties at home, and Kate had asked her wist- 
fully to stay, and professed still to need the 
cool damp cloths upon her hands. They were 
all sitting quiet just now. Mme. Orlanoff 
looked at the western sky, the pines across the 
road, the girl at her knee ; breathed the sweet 
mild air fragrant with the lingering hyacinths ; 
and the unwonted place, the train of circum- 
stances which had brought her there, the sharp 
contrast of this life and that she had known 
before, and all that made the world seem 
strange, Vere borne in upon her strongly. She 
had not spared herself up to this time in amus- 
ing Kate : to-night she had been telling, while 
Laurens listened, of some artists she had met 
in Paris and Rome ; she had described some 
great pictu*res, and one or two . places about 
which Kate had asked. She talked with the 
ease and natural eloquence of a woman of many 
ideas and long worldly training ; her listeners 
had been fascinated ; but she had grown silent 
now. 

Laurens had been restless and disturbed last 


84 


THE GEORGIANS. 


night also. To know that Mme. Orlanoff was 
in the house had filled him with unusual excite- 
ment ; every thing in it seemed too poor and 
too unworthy ; but this feeling had passed off 
before now. The house was poor and plain ; 
the bed on which the guest would lie to-night 
was a weight on Kate’s mind, being rather hard 
and uncomfortable, and spread with worn, thin 
sheets that were patched in places ; the chair 
which she now occupied was a heavy black 
wooden enormity, with the paint rubbed off in 
places ; there was nothing old and handsome 
about the house to enable it to be matched fitly 
with The Pines, nor any thing luxurious and 
new ; Mark had not the talent for money-mak- 
ing, the single devotion to profit that would 
have made his land a better-paying investment. 
But in this house, such as it was, and with 
these neighbors who were as certainly poor 
as they were handsome and well-bred, Mme. 
Orlanoff was already at home; and to-night 
both the brother and sister felt that it was so. 
Whatever she spoke of that was great and 
beautiful, whatever she touched on that was 
unlovely or poor, they could see that nothing 


THE LAURENSES. 85 

was dear to this woman but such things as 
they, too, could appreciate ; she was one of 
them ; they were of her own kind ; and while 
Mark, with a still, reserved enjoyment, which 
feared to betray itself in look or tone, listened 
to and conversed with the guest, Kate leaned 
happily against her knee, and felt that she 
loved her. 

“Do you ever sing, Mme. Orlanoff.?” Kate 
asked, finally breaking the silence that had 
rested upon them all for a time. 

“No, I do not sing,” Mme. Orlanoff an- 
swered after a slight pause. Her hand 
smoothed Kate’s hair again. 

“ I feel as if I should be perfectly happy if I 
could hear somebody sing now,” Kate said. 

“ My cousin Miss Davidge has a sweet so- 
prano voice,” Mme. Orlanoff observed. “You 
would enjoy listening to it. I shall take you 
home with me to-morrow, and Bride shall sing 
you to sleep at night.” 

• She said this in as composed and settled a 
manner as if the idea had not just occurred to 
her, and the invitation been given on im- 
pulse. 


86 


THE GEORGIANS. 


That would be lovely ; but I couldn’t leave 
Mark. I never do.” 

“Mr. Laurens/ will you not promise us a 
great deal of your time during the week, if 
your sister will go home with me.?” Mme. 
.Orlanoff asked, turning her face, fine and fair 
in the white light, towards the shadow. 

“Thank you. Yes, I should come over duly; 
and I fear we ought not to ask you to continue 
the present arrangement : you have guests ” — 

“ I have guests, and I wish Miss Laurens to 
be one of them,” she said. “Your sister has 
really accustomed herself to anticipate the life 
of a recluse. She hates visiting the people she 
knows in town, she says. It is all very well to 
give up society, after one has tried it, and 
knows whether its pleasures and relationships 
hold out attractions for one, or no ; but I can- 
not reconcile myself to her utter seclusion from 
it. My house is quiet enough, and there will 
be no social features there after this young 
cousin goes ; but I think it will enliven both 
Miss Laurens and Bride to have the compan- 
ionship of each other. . Will you not both 
come } ” 


THE LAURENSES. 8 / 

“I will go anywliere to be with you, and 
thank you,” Kate said, with shy fervor. 

Mme. Orlanoff smiled. The affection she 
had awakened in this inexperienced, unworldly 
young girl was a thorough pleasure to her. 

“ We will have music for you both,” she said, 
“and we will read. You are fond of reading. 
Miss Laurens .? ” 

“ Of some kinds of reading. I was wonder- 
ing how I should pass the time till my hands 
got well. I couldn’t believe, at first, they 
would heal like this ; and I thought Mark 
and I would have to compromise in our tastes, 
and he would read to me then. — You’d have 
done it, wouldn’t you, Mark } ” 

“ Of course.” 

“You are a kind brother, Mr. Laurens,” 
Mme. Orlanoff said, again turning her beauti- 
ful eyes towards the shadows. “Your sister 
has talked of you as I fancy few young girls 
talk of elder brothers.” 

“ I am all she has to praise,” Laurens said, 
in that deep, repressed voice of his. 

“You have been very much alone,” Mme. 
Orlanoff returned gently. 


88 


THE GEORGIANS. 


** Do you know that my father was a Union 
man during the late war ? ” Laurens asked with 
some bitterness. That is why we live in this 
poor place ; that is why we have no kinsfolk 
on my father’s side, — or none with whom we 
are friendly ; and that is why Kate was sent to 
a Northern school, — because our people here 
do not soon forgive a difference of opinion, and 
contact with irrational prejudice is always an- 
noying to a rational being. I am a Georgian,” 
he went on with suppressed vehemence, stretch- 
ing out his long, powerful arm along the piazza- 
railing. I love the State, and desire its pros- 
perity, as deeply as any man whose creed is 
the sovereign rights of the States. In no 
other place is my home or my birthplace ; but 
because my father once, and I in my turn, dare 
to hold our own opinions, we have had enmity, 
defamation, and ostracism, which are only fad- 
ing away now. Your uncle was the first man,” 
he added, softening, “to declare that he was 
our friend, although he differed from us in the 
extreme. His arguments v/ere explosions, tor- 
rents of words, that fairly overwhelmed you ; 
but he ended up by the kindliest beam of the 


THE LA (/TENSES. 


89 


eye, the most good-natured chuckle, and a grip 
of • the hand that was a faint warning that the 
dear old gentleman would rack his wits for a 
fortnight to do you some good turn. He was 
a great admirer of my mother’s,” Mark ended 
in a gentler accent still. 

“ I wish I had known my uncle,” Mme. 
Orlanoff replied musingly. Then, after a 
pause, “ I had a deep interest in American 
politics, and have tried to understand their 
issues. I suppose nobody lives now who is 
not glad that slavery is abolished.” 

There are many who find it hard to be 
altogether glad of that,” Laurens said, with a 
short laugh. 

“ Why, is it not better ? ” 

“ For whom ? ” 

“For both races. Ht is a dire calamity to 
/tave a slave ; ’tis an inexpiable curse to be 
one.’ ” 

“ You are quoting .? ” 

“From a wise man.” 

“ He may have been right. I think, howjever, 
that the results of emancipation have disap- 
pointed many abolitionists. But many of us 


90 


THE GEORGIANS. 


Southerners agree, at least, that it is a calamity 
to have slaves.” 

It is all so mixed up,” Kate said. I don’t 
believe in politics. I think people ought to go 
ahead, and be honest, and work, and earn 
money, and spend it, and keep things going, 
and that’s all of it. The world would do very 
well without politics if every man would work, 
and earn his own bread honestly.” 

Laurens gave one of his short, suppressed 
laughs. 

“ But there are a good many kinds of work 
in this world,” Mme. Orlanoff said, smiling. 
“Will you decide which kind is of most im- 
portance, and should be most encouraged .? ” 

“Why, I don’t know,” Kate said, confused. 
“ Work that keeps people from starving. Papa 
always said that the producer ranked above the 
consumer. He thought the man who produced 
good things more worthy than the man who 
bought them.” 

“ The sculptor and the artist are the ones to 
reverence, and not the prince who patronizes 
them ? Yes ; that is the spirit of the age.” 

“ Yes, artists and sculptors, if you go so far. 


TITE LAURENSES. 


91 

Farmers above lawyers, though he had Mark 
read law at one time.” 

“ But is not brain-work as necessary as bodily 
labor.? There is so much to do in this world, 
my dear ! There are so many industries, so 
much knowledge to get ! While some are 
studying to increase the fruits of the earth, 
and others to improve the various breeds of 
animals, or to reduce to a science the secrets 
of winds and currents, climates and chemical 
properties, some must be exploring, some dis- 
covering, or inventing, or deciphering ; some 
must be historians, some teachers, some able to 
generalize and learn philosophy : are not all at 
work for the world .? And yet, while loving and 
hating and personal greeds exist in the minds 
of men, you will not be able to prevent idleness 
and wickedness, and protect the workers and 
their interests, without laws, will you .? And 
when one has one’s own ideas of the best laws 
for government, and the best men to enforce 
these laws, there will be politics, will there 
not .? My dear, if girls knew how alive science 
of all kinds is with the interests of human 
beings, nothing would seem dry, and the idlest 
lady in the land might become a student.” 


92 


THE GEORGIANS. 


Kate had lifted her head, and gazed into the 
speaker’s face earnestly. 

“How the world is! I shall never take 
it all in,” she said slowly, and .again drooped 
her head down wearily. 

“You are tired; let us go to your room,” 
Mme. Orlanoff said, making a movement to rise. 

“ Must you go, Kate } ” Laurens asked 
quickly. 

“No, stay,” said Kate, gently detaining her 
friend. “ Do stay, and let Mark talk with you. 
I can never talk up to his level long, and he is 
so much alone.” 

Mme. Orlanoff rose, looking down at the 
young girl with a faint, kindly smile. 

“ I am your nurse, and I fear you are just a 
little feverish. I have been exciting you by 
talk on all sorts of subjects. I am responsible, 
and shall proceed to make amends by putting 
you to sleep early. Let us go.” 

Kate rose, and went up to her brother to bid 
him good-night. 

“ You have read law } ” Mme. Orlanoff asked, 
.turning on him her face full of kindness and 
interest. 


THE LAURENSES. 


93 


“Only such books as my father left to me. 
I have no expectation of taking up a profes- 
sion,” he said, “ only I want to learn every thing 
that comes in my way ; and, in furtherance of 
‘ a liberal education,’ I hope to talk more with 
you.” 

“ Au revoivy” she answered, “ and good- 
night.” 

Then Kate joined her in the doorway, and 
they went. 

They had not been in their bedroom more 
than ten minutes when Kate, after listening, 
said to her friend, — 

“ There ! Some one has stopped at the gate. 
Let us turn the blinds so that we can see.” 

A small gray horse and a tumble-down buggy 
stood at the gate ; a tall, gaunt man descended 
from it, and took from the foot a large, dark 
object, longer than an ordinary travelling-bag. 

“ Oh ! I thought it must be some belated 
preacher,” Kate said, “but it’s old Capt. Buck! 
Oh, Mme. Orlanoff, wouldn’t you like to hear 
some real old-fashioned banjo-playing I know 
the old man has heard about my hands, and 
come to pick the banjo and cheer me up. He 


94 the GEORGIANS. 

has offered as comfort to me on all occasions 
the melodies of that banjo.” 

Presently a queer little ping, pang ! sound- 
ed on the air ; they heard some one clear his 
throat, and then heard him say, — 

“ Well, ’twon’t do no harm to sorter serenade 
her, I reckon. La! she’d laugh an’ clap her 
hands from the time she was so high, to hear 
me pickin’ on the banjo. I’m goin’ to give her 
somepun lively now, — none o’ yo’ high-falutin’ 
chunes, but a good old Gawgy song.” 

Ping, pang, ping, pang, went the banjo, with 
a queer, broken, cackling mirth of its own ; and 
‘‘Whoop! ha, ha, ha!” came a laugh so loud, 
so full of vivid and .sonorous enjoyment, that 
Mme. Orlanoff started. 

“ Why, that is a darky ! ” she exclaimed. 

“ He is the only white man who can emit 
such a sound,” Kate said, breaking into a laugh 
herself. The mirth was infectious. Each suc- 
cessive shock of laughter from without was fol- 
lowed by a softer peal from within ; and Lau- 
rens was laughing, though half reluctantly, on 
the porch. 

Mme. Orlanoff could not distinguish the 


THE LAURENSES. 


95 


words of the song that followed the laugh, at 
first ; but it was some negro song whose wit 
consisted solely in mimicry and in uttering a 
number of words as rapidly as human tongue 
could do. Bending to look out of the window 
at Kate’s side, she saw in the moonlight a tall 
man sitting upright in a chair, his hands on his 
instrument, his chin up, his face revealed in the 
pale clear light. It was an American face, 
with high forehead, gray eyes, high nose, thin 
features, grizzled mustache with heavy wrin- 
kles on each side, and grayish hair combed 
down very flat on one side of the head. His ' 
head being thrown in the air, and his lips work- 
ing fast to utter the rapid jabbering, inter- 
spersed with catchings of the breath, which imi- 
tated negro dialect, he was a curious object ; 
and then suddenly every feature expanded, and 
that infectious, good-natured, corn-field darky ” 
laugh arose again, and provoked to answer- 
ing involuntary laughter. Then, to an easy 
melody, and in a negro’s accent, — 


Stephen tole a gal 
He’d buy her a bunnit: 
Ste’en never done it, 


96 


THE GEORGIANS. 


You may depen’ upon it. 

X)h, la ! ladies, don’ you min’ Stephen ; 

Stephen so deceivin’, his daddy can’ believe ’m.” 

. Then the jabber, in which occurred the follow- 
ing inconsequent remarks, which had nothing 
to commend them but a rapidity of utterance 
which made all that was said — part of which 
was not audible at the window — an overwhelm- 
ing absurdity : — 

“Mars’ bought boss an’ wagon — Stephen wuz de 
driber — run ’ginst lamp-pos’ — smash ’mall to pieces — 
smash de ole missis’s ledder-cum spectacles de ole lady 
look at de comet — thought de worl’s' cornin’ to ’n eend 
— same ole lady — snuff mid bellowses — tree yoke ’n 
oxen, forty log-chains — subsidin’ ’pun a comnamibus 
line — an’ she holler out — 

Oh, la ! ladies, don’ you min’ Stephen ! 

Stephen so deceivin’ dat de debble don’ believe ’m ! ” 

Nothing but the ear can convey the ludicrous 
effect of this negro-song; and no mere jotting 
of the words with a pen can convey the pathos 
of the next, in which occurred the same dialect, 
the same catching of the breath, while alto- 
gether another effect was reached : softly pat- 
ting with his foot, and echoing a line now and 


THE LAURENSES. 


97 


then in a whisper, — listening, — singing with 
a smile expressed in each softened note, as if 
seeing a happy vision as he sang, the imperson- 
ator of “Ole Blin’ Joe” put a poetry and music 
into his lay such as none but those who heard 
his own version of the ballad ever discerned 
in it. 

“ Pm a-comin’, yes, a-comin’ ! 

Fur my head is bendin’ low : 

•I hear de angel-voices callin’ 

Ole blin’ Joe ! 

I’m a-comin’ ! (Yes, yes !) I’m a-comin’ ! (Yes, yes !) 

Fur my head is bendin’ low : 

I hear dem angel-voices callin’ 

Ole blin’ Joe ! ” 

Then passing on to another air, — 

“ Here lies my ole cabin ho-o-ome ; 

Here lies my sister an’ my brother; 

Here lies my wife, once the joy of my life, 

An’ the child in the grave with its mother.” 

These plaintive songs being ended, there was 
a lively dancing-tune rattled off on the banjo, 
unaccompanied save by a patting of the foot ; 
then a shuffling of feet and chairs ; an invita- 
tion heartily extended to the singer to stay all 


98 


THE GEORGIANS. 


night; a refusal, “because Bessy she’ll be ex- 
pectin’ o’ me and then the sound of the click- 
ing gate, and a horse’s hoofs, and wheels. 

On this second night at her Georgia neigh- 
bor’s Mme. Orlanoff slept soundly on her hard 
bed ; and Kate, with unscarred hands folded at 
ease upon her breast, breathed evenly and 
peacefully beside her. 


The God of Love ^ — ah, benedicite ! 

Hoxv 7nighty and how great a lord is he / 

For he of low hearts can make high ; of high 
He can make low, and unto death brmg nigh : 

And hard hearts he can make them kind and free. 

To tell his might my wit may not suffice: 

Foolish men he can make thejji otit of wise: 

To humble or afflict whome'‘er he, will. 

To gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill.'” 

Geoffrey Chaucer, version of Wordsworth. 



BENEATH THE FINES. 


lOI 


CHAPTER VI. 

BENEATH THE PINES. 

A FEW days later a hammock, hung across 
^ one end of the columned piazza of the 
house at The Pines, held two girls, who swung 
comfortably back and forth and chatted. They 
lay facing each other, each with the head a 
little raised ; Kate’s fair, regular features out- 
lined against the crimson of a sofa-cushion, and 
Bride’s saucy face smiling across at her with a 
blue crocheted shawl bundled up beneath her 
head. They were alone. She was too much 
left to the charms of feminine society, Bride 
thought. 

^‘Now, Jack Stevens is a person you ought 
to know,” Bride was saying. “ Jack is just like 
a brother to me.” (Kate had heard Bride say 
this of so many young men, that she had come 
to think that Bride’s sisterly feelings were pre- 


102 


THE GEORGIANS. 


ternaturally active.) '‘He is just the one to 
keep you lively in a dull country-house. Noth- 
ing comes amiss to him. He can play cards or 
croquet ; reads aloud charmingly ; can be senti- 
mental at a pinch ; dances magnificently, and 
always knows the latest steps ; likes to fish or 
to row, to walk or to ride ; can play a waltz, 
wind worsted, whistle like a mocking-bird, 
shoot at a mark, and get up all kinds of fun. 
He is so popular ! I am dying to have him 
come out while you are here. He would be 
entirely distracted about you. He doesn’t like 
tall, thin girls: oh! of course he likes me; but 
I mean he can’t have a weakness for any girl 
who is not fair and round. He is perfectly 
reckless in his remarks. He said to me once 
at a party> ‘Peggy,’ — he had a way of calling 
me Peggy and Bridget to tease me, — ‘ Peggy, 
if you come to another hop in that white dress 
with, red ribbons, I shall not dance with you, 
that’s flat : with those blue eyes, and that long 
red and white stuff on, you remind me of noth- 
ing on earth but the American flag as she 
waves in the breeze ! ’ Wasn’t that an atten- 
uated object to resemble.^ I wore blue next 
time, and he was amiable.” 


BEN-EATH THE PINES. 


103 


Mme. Orlanoff came out upon the piazza 
with a book in her hand. 

“ Here is the book, Bride, that I promised 
you,” she said. “ I am going to unpack those 
two boxes. Miss Laurens, will you have a 
book also, or is Bride to read this one to you ” 
She will read to me, she says, — thank you. 
Can I help you unpack, if I come in ” 

“No, keep your place. I like best to have 
you swing and keep cool. It is warm to-day ; ” 
and Mme. Orlanoff, who looked almost as young 
as the girl she smiled down upon, waved a 
black feather-fan of her aunt’s, which she had 
taken up, and stirred the small dark curls that 
ringed thenfselves on her white neck and behind 
the ears. . The summer-like heat of the last 
soft April days had called buds and blossoms 
into being by troops. Mme. Orlanoff had a 
half-blown white rosebud, of Kate’s giving, in 
the black ribbon at her waist, and she wore a 
plain white dress. 

“ Do you like love-stories ? ” Bride asked of 
Kate, opening her book. 

“Why, no, — not very much,” Kate said 
hesitatingly, reluctantly removing her eyes from 


104 GEORGIANS. 

Mme. Orlanoff. ''Not unless they are excit- 
ing.” 

" Exciting How } ” 

" I mean, unless they are full of adventure, 
unless the people do something more dignified 
than ordinary folks. I like ' Westward Ho : ’ 
if you have ever read that, you will know what 
I like.” 

"What is the story of it.^” asked Mme. 
Orlanoff. 

" Oh ! Tm not good at telling stories,” Kate 
said modestly. "It is by Mr. Kingsley; and 
it brings in the great sailors of Queen Eliza- 
beth’s time, and adventures with Spaniards and 
Indians in South America ; and it brings in the 
Inquisition ; and the man I like best of them 
all dies by torture because of the girl. Rose, 
who was very foolish at first, but who becomes 
the most touching character in the book. They 
all loved this girl, Amyas and all. He is a 
splendid character, so daring and brave ! But I 
can’t give you any idea of the story.” 

"Please tell me of some other one which 
you like,” Mme. Orlanoff said, still waving the 
feather-fan, and, standing, looking down. 


BENEATH THE PINES. IO5 

'‘Oh! I don’t know. I like ‘Foul Play,’ by 
Charles Reade, very much. I suppose you 
have read that : the man is cast away on an 
island in the sea with the girl he loves.” 

“A piquant situation, doubtless, but not a 
novel conception,” Mme. Orlanoff said dryly. 

“ Oh I I dare say it has happened before,” 
Kate answered with simplicity; “but the way 
they manage is so interesting I He is clever at 
all sorts of devices, and builds a nice shelter for 
her, so that the beasts can’t get at her or scare 
her at night ; and he contrives a way for her to 
let him know if she’s molested ; and they try 
afterwards to make her marry another man who 
is a perfect wretch, and I like the scientific way 
in which he is found out.” 

“ Ah ! that must be a very fine book,” Mme. 
Orlanoff said lightly, touching Kate’s head a 
moment with a swift, caressing hand, and then 
re-entering the house. 

“Well, I like all kind of love-stories,” Bride 
averred. “ I don’t care how idiotic they are, if 
the people are happy. I have cried till I looked 
like a witch over some books ; and — Oh, 
here comes your brother ! Pull my dress down 


io6 


THE GEORGIANS. 


if my feet show. Aren’t you awfully proud of 
your brother.? He’s so big and stately, I 
should think he would make other men seem to 
you very insignificant.” 

The subject of this artfully artless outburst 
ascended the steps of the piazza, and doffed his 
hat at sight of the young girls. He drew near, 
and, exchanging a “ Good-morning ” with them, 
took his stand by Kate’s head, laid his strong 
hand on the hammock, and began to swing the 
girls rather swiftly, a lurking smile in the 
depths of his calm gray eyes. 

Mark, don’t ! Oh, Mark ! don’t you want 
to see some new books .? Mme. Orlanoff is 
unpacking two boxes in the sitting-room : go 
and help her, like a dear good fellow.” 

‘‘It is an interested motive which prompts 
the advice ; I decline it,” Mark said : but his 
hand left the hammock, and he moved towards 
the open window, nevertheless. Mme. Orlanoff 
had spoken to him of these books on his last 
visit ; and she had promised that he should see 
them to-day, he having been invited to The 
Pines to the informal two-o’clock dinner. 

Bride, as he passed her, looked up saucily 


BENEATH THE PINES. 10 / 

into his face ; but he did not see her smile, nor 
care to be detained. He bowed his head, and 
entered by the window. He found Mme. Or- 
lanoff alone, with piles of books about her, and 
an empty bookcase, fitted between two side- 
windows, yawning to receive them. As he 
came in at the window. Uncle Seneca went out 
at the door with an empty box. 

The happiest day of his life seemed to him 
to have dawned. He was welcomed ; and he 
knelt down on one knee beside her, as she sat 
on a low stool, and began to hand her the books 
as she called for them. They lingered for a 
remark on this volume or that ; and every thing 
they said, serious or sportive, terse or rambling, 
helped to their understanding of each other. 
She found him well read in the best English 
books which she had ; and many of the foreign 
works seemed known to him, whether by trans- 
lation or otherwise she did not inquire. If his 
scholarship was narrow, she did not detect it. 
For him, the sweet low voice of Mme. Orlanoff, 
even the nicety of her pronunciation of thie lan- 
guage he usually heard so carelessly spoken, 
all the subtle refinements of the speech of a 


io8 


THE GEORGIANS. 


cultivated woman, were full of charm ; and the 
beauty of the face he glanced into, serene as a 
starlit sky, added to an interest so vivid, so 
keen, that he resolutely composed glance and 
word lest she should suspect in him that sudden 
and ardent passion which'in a week’s time had 
come to possess him so mightily. 

The blissful time was brief. They had not 
been alone together an hour when there were 
sounds without, betokening a new arrival, — ex- 
clamations of surprise, rapid introductions, 
laughter, and all the warmth of Bride’s exuber- 
ant welcome of an accession of male visitors. 
Then that young woman, saying, “ Here, Jack, 
help me to get chairs for you both,” came to 
the farther window, and passed out a cane- 
seated chair to a tall, blonde young man in 
an officer’s uniform, — the redoubtable Jack 
Stevens. 

Can I not bring one } ” asked a second 
voice ; and at the window next to Mine. Orlanoff 
there stepped in a stout, middle-aged man, 
handsomely but carelessly attired, whose thin 
sandy hair was parted in the middle, above a 
high, broad forehead. This gentleman — who, 


BENEATH THE PINES. 


log 


by the way, liked to be told that he resembled 
H. R. H. the Prince of Wales — stopped short 
upon seeing Mme. Orlanoff, and then flushed 
until his high forehead was suffused with pink. 

“Is it possible.? the Countess Orlanoff.? Can 
I be mistaken .? ” he said, looking at her with 
visible excitement. 

Mme. Orlanoff stood up in her simple 
dress with all the dignity of a queen, her 
slightly-startled look fading into one serene and 
not unkindly. 

“ Mr. Blount, without fear of mistake. Allow 
me,” turning as he approached her, “to intro- 
duce Mr. Laurens of this place. Mr. Blount of 
New York, Mr. Laurens.” 

The two men bowed stiffly, one disappointed 
of the touch of her hand, the other despoiled 
of a tete-a-tete with her. 

“Stevens had not prepared me for this — 
this great pleasure,” Blount said, turning to 
her after this formal salute. “ He spoke only 
of driving to see two New-York ladies: how 
long have you been in this country, madam .? ” 
breaking off. 

“A few months,” she said briefly. “I am 


I lO THE GEORGIANS. 

here quite a stranger, seeing no one but my 
neighbors Mr. and Miss Laurens at present. 
Your friend calls, I think, on my aunt Mrs. 
Davidge and her daughter.” 

“ But you live here } ” 

“ A relative left me this place. I have come 
to see how I shall like it : ’tis the whole simple 
story.” 

‘‘ Pardon me. I had no idea you were nearer 
than Paris. In fact, my last news of you was 
that you were the belle of St. Petersburg, and 
that even the snows of old Russia” — 

“Pray do not speak to me of Russia,” she 
said with less calmness than usual. “ Do not 
remind me of any thing, please. It is one of a 
woman’s privileges to forget all she dislikes to 
remember, is it not.? We will join Miss Lau- 
rens and Miss Davidge on the veranda.” 

“By Jove!” Jack had ejaculated without. 
“Here’s old Blount talking there with that 
lady. Miss Bride. He seems to know her ; he’s 
staying. He has the greatest luck of knowing 
people, that fellow; great traveller, don’t you 
know.? Yes, Blount’s as familiar with Cairo 
and Jerusalem as you are with St. Paul’s or 


BENEATH THE PINES, III 

New York. Ain’t Tie lucky.? She’s talking; 
~ she’s coming out here ! Miss Laurens, I was 
born to good fortune. I had a bet with Miss 
Bride that I’d see this lady, and yet she de- 
clared that I wouldn’t ; and I’ve had a bet with 
myself that I’d know you some day, ever since 
one day I saw you at the spring : you were out 
in a carriage with an old gentleman last fall, 
and you had a lap full of red leaves.” 

His sunny freckled face and beaming blue 
eyes, were turned from Kate to Mme. Orlanoff’s 
slowly-approaching figure as he concluded ; and 
he lost the first quick flush that his speech 
called up to the girlish cheek. He had seen 
her, he remembered her among all ’ the gay 
crowd on the road that fine day ; he, the popu- 
lar, the incomparable Jack Stevens. Kate had 
seen him on that day when she passed him as 
she rode by the side of her friend, old Judge 
Wakefield. She had noticed him too ; but into 
her girlish reflections upon his gallant horse- 
manship and bright good looks she had woven 
no fancies as to any future meeting. 

She sat in the gently-swaying hammock, from 
which Bride had sprung at sound of their 


II2 


THE GEORGIANS. 


voices, making a pretty little picture with her 
arm stretehed out to hold the side of the 
hammock, and her fair girlish face flushed like 
a blush-rose. But Mme. Orlanoff came out on 
the piazza, and Jack was presented, and she 
took a -chair close by Kate ; and both of the 
young girls felt a twinge of envy at her careless 
conquest of the attention of both gentlemen. 
For Jack her charm was greatly enhanced by 
his curiosity about her ; but Blount had loved 
her many years ago. 

Laurens did not follow Mme. Orlanoff to the 
piazza. She had turned, and invited him to do 
so at his pleasure, just as she quitted the room ; 
and he had bowed, but continued his attentions 
to some books he was placing together. He 
felt that he did not want to see more of this 
Blount. Every fibre in him seemed stirred to 
protest against him. Here addressing Mme. 
Orlanoff as an old friend, or at least old ac- 
quaintance, was this man of her own world, who 
had known her abroad ; who had probably seen 
her often in gay assemblies, and might be ac- 
quainted with faets that he strongly desired to 
know, yet wished never to hear from any lips 


BENEATH THE PINES. II3 

but her own. Had she married for love } Had 
she been widowed long } He thought that her 
uncle had implied that her marriage had made 
her unhappy ; but how — while it lasted, or 
because it had ended so soon } He longed to 
know all. Had that delicate, serene face ever 
softened above a baby’s face, or rained tears on 
a child’s little coffin } She had known some 
deep sorrow. It was one of her subtlest, most 
endearing graces. 

. He had not thought of it as strange that 
neither he nor Kate should have heard from 
her lips the smallest fact as to her life after 
marriage, while of her childhood and girlhood 
she had given them some brief and charming 
glimpses. It had only seemed singular that 
she should have given them opportunity to 
know so much of herself. She had indeed 
told them of places and things which it was 
unlikely that she had visited as demoiselle; but 
she had never so spoken as to let them imagine 
under what circumstances she had travelled, 
nor who had been of her party. They had 
known her a week, — only one; but they had 
passed hours with her daily, although this was 


14 


THE GEORGIANS. 


but his second interview with her alone. His 
jealousy wakened in him a throng of unhappy, 
tumultuous questionings and surmises, and he 
was naturally of a melancholic turn. He sat 
motionless, helpless, more unhappy than ever 
in all of his life before ; then took up one book 
after another, glancing simply at title-pages in 
most cases, for the majority of them were in 
French and German. Looking over the volume 
of- Keats which lay with the works of a few 
other English poets, he found in this, as in 
many others of her books, fine, swift strokes of 
a pencil here and there, scoring favorite lines. 
He followed these traces with his eyes now 
and then, and the blood flowed faster through 
his veins ; but he closed the book : she had not 
meant for him to read these words of sadness 
or of passion made personal by her pencil’s 
touch. He turned over two or three books 
with heedless haste. Before him one fell open, 
with a heavy mark curving about four short 
and bitter lines, which he paused, in spite of 
himself, to read, — 

“Lest all who love-and choose him 
See Love, and so refuse him : 


BENEATH THE PINES. 


II5 


For all who find him lose him ; 

But all have found him fair.” 

He rose up suddenly, laid the book aside, and 
strode out through the side-door into the open 
air, and down through the hedged walks to the 
magnolia-tree, beneath which stood a rustic 
bench, on which he threw himself down, and 
lay there plunged in revery. No whisper of the 
sheltering tree, no stir of the heavy Norwegian 
pines that screened him from the house, no 
note of any bird, warned him of the future 
hours when he should stand in this spot again, 
wrestling with dire temptation. Only by de- 
grees he became conscious of music in the air, 
and heard Bride’s voice singing an old song, — 
one her father had liked, and Jack Stevens had 
asked for. 


“ By Killarney’s lakes and fells,” 

Bride sang. What good fairy had presided at 
this girl’s christening to give her a voice that 
should charm the ear like that 1 The poorest 
ballad sounded rich with Bride’s sweet voice 
lilting through its measures, and with the feel- 
ing which she could put into the words by 


ii6 


THE GEORGIANS. 


some simple magic, glorifying sense as well as 
sound. Laurens shook himself together, and 
moved slowly back towards the house. He 
stood just without the open front-door, having 
gained the piazza, and could see Bride at the 
piano, in her tumbled blue lawn, with her 
cheeks flushed, and her eyes shining. Mrs. 
Davidge had come in, and Jack Stevens was 
sitting with her and Kate. Blount was lean- 
ing at the end of the piano. Mme. Orlanoff he 
could not see. He moved softly towards one of 
the long front windows to get a different view 
of the room. The song changed as he did so. 
Is that really Bride Davidge, who is singing of 
a deep and hopeless sorrow such as this } — 


Break, break, break. 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
ut the tender grace of a day ^Hat-is-tl^ 
Will never come back to me.” 



This song again is of Jack’s choosing ; he 
has heard her sing it years ago in Minnesota, 
but not like this. As they listen within, and 
Laurens without pauses to hear, he is aware of 
a figure approaching, and turns to confront a 


BENEATH THE PINES. II7 

second visitor in uniform, a manly, mustachioed, 
handsome officer, whose cap is in his hand. 

“ Can you tell me if my friends are still here, 
— Mr. Stevens and Mr. Blount.?” he asks of 
Laurens. 

“They are within, sir,” Laurens answers. 
The officer, bowing, enters the front door, which 
stands open, while Laurens moves toward the 
window. 

As if to display her versatility. Bride has 
dashed off into a lively little French song, fault- 
lessly pronounced, thanks to Mme. Orlanoff ; 
but in the middle of a line she stops and rises, 
while glow and pallor succeed each other on 
her face. The young officer at the door hesi- 
tates as he catches sight of her evident agita- 
tion : she makes a visible effort, smiles, and 
advances to meet the new-comer with an at- 
tempt at self-possession. 

“Won’t you come in.?” she falters; and 
then, not for the first time by any means, for 
Bride is not strong, she turns faint, and her 
welcoming hand falls beside her. 

“What! Ferguson give her to me!” Jack 
cries, jumping up; but Capt. Ferguson, who 


Il8 THE GEORGIANS. 

has caught her in his arms, still sustains her, 
looking on her with such alarm and solicitude 
that he is utterly unconscious of the presence 
of others. As a chair is rolled forward, how- 
ever, and he sees the faint color reviving in her 
face, he looks about, and relinquishes her to her 
mother, who bends over her anxiously : but he 
lingers near while, as if by magic, Mme. Orlan- 
off conveys all the rest from the room, Blount 
and Laurens, Kate and Jack, retreating down 
the piazza, while in a moment Mme. Orlanoff 
follows them. 

“ It is past ; she recovers,” Felicia says 
lightly. “ We will leave her to her mother for 
a little while, however, and we will all walk 
down to the lake as you had proposed. Miss 
Laurens.” 

They all go. Jack and Kate leading the way. 
Mme. Orlanoff disappears for a moment, and 
returns with a little light basket in her hand. 
Blount unfurls his umbrella to shade her ; but 
Laurens, walking on the other side, holds out 
his hand for her basket, and it is given. 

You are going to the fish-pond } ” he says. 

“Yes, I go every day to feed the fish, and 


BENEATH THE PINES. 1 19 

Bride and Miss Laurens go with me. They 
think the place so pretty as to be worth showing 
to our visitors.” 

Miss Laurens, look at Blount’s umbrella!” 
Jack exclaims, laughing. He never stirs out 
without one. In St. Augustine, where I met 
him first, and where he has spent several 
winters, he carries a buff umbrella lined with 
green, which is as well known to every lounger 
on the Plaza, every soldier at the post, every 
boatman on the water, as Blount is. I have 
seen him carrying such a shelter, and, more- 
over, wearing an immense straw hat also lined 
as to the brim with green, his shoes covered 
with mud, and his clothes with dust, while in 
one fist he carried a bunch of wood and swamp- 
flowers gathered on a twenty-mile botanizing 
tramp, — I have seen him, like this, trudge up a 
hotel piazza, and brave a hundred wondering 
eyes, to present these earliest tokens of spring 
to some shrinking young lady who touched 
their very stems with politely-veiled aversion. 
Let him flirt on the sea-wall with this one, let 
him sail on the* water with that one, still Blount 
remained constant to one thing, — his um- 
brella.” 


120 


THE GEORGIANS. 


“ You chatterer of scandal!” Blount says as 
his laughing traducer, who has evidently been 
speaking for the benefit of all present, winds up 
his harangue. “ He exaggerates the whole 
thing, now. Miss Laurens. — You do not recog- 
nize me in his picture, do you, Mme. Orlanoff ” 

“ It is some time since I saw you, Mr. 
Blount,” Felicia answers ; “ but, if I remember 
rightly, you had even then a pretty reputation 
for erratic fancies. I don’t doubt that you are 
capable of the twenty-mile walk or the big 
broad-brimmed hat.” 

“ Perhaps I am not always conventional in 
my tastes,” Blount replies composedly. “ Op- 
posites attract, it is said ; and you know that I 
was ever a devoted admirer of the Countess 
Orlanoff, who is a consistent worshipper of 
les convenances!' 

Mme. Orlanoff hears the remark with appar- 
ent inattention. She is never known to pursue 
a conversation touching upon what she has 
been in the past. She now looks up at Laurens, 
and asks, — 

“ Do you know, Mr. Laurens, how this pond 
came here ? Is it entirely artificial } ” 


BENEATH THE FINES. 


I2I 


Laurens almost starts as she addresses him, 
for he has grown abstracted again through the 
intensity of his feeling about Blount. But his 
old self-possession stands by him. 

‘*Not entirely,” he answers, deliberately. 
*‘Your uncle found all this place below here 
swampy, and a slow stream running through 
the centre of the pool that always stood in the 
lowest place : he had some digging and trench- 
ing done, and it became a pretty little lake with 
small trouble.” 

Blount was obliged to furl his umbrella now, 
for they had entered a narrow path through the 
trees, and presently a miniature lake lay before 
them, its blue ripples laughing in the sunshine. 
Young willows and mulberry-trees fringed its 
irregular windings, and at the far end one great 
water-oak, twisted and gnarled, bent over the 
water. At the near end, beneath a young wil- 
low, a bench had been made out of a board, the 
stumps of two fallen trees, and a honeysuckle- 
vine, the closely intertwisted stems of which 
formed a semicircular back, thickly clustered 
over with blossoms. 

Jack Stevens and Kate walked around to the 


122 


THE GEORGIANS. 


end of the pond where the oak-tree hung over 
the water ; and, after standing there for a 
moment, Jack carefully assisted Kate to a 
natural seat made by a bending oak-branch, 
and then took up a position near her. The 
two young people were becoming well ac- 
quainted. Kate had told Jack where she lived, 
and given an account of Mme. Orlanoff’s kind- 
ness to her ; and Jack was beguiled into stories 
of life on the frontier, and of skirmishes with 
the Indians, — Kate listening with the keen 
interest of a girl for whom all the events of the 
stirring world have the relish of novelty; while 
Jack tasted the delights of seeing transformed, 
by a girl’s shy idealism, those slight experiences 
of his into the exploits of a hero. 

Mme. Orlanoff had seated herself on the 
bench under the willow; and Blount had sat 
down, perhaps as gracefully as a stout man 
could, at her feet. Laurens remained standing, 
rather grim and entirely dumb, by the tallest of 
the stumps which helped to form Mme. Or- 
lanoff’s bench. Blount took up her basket, 
which she said contained bread for the fishes, 
and opened it. 


BENEATH THE PINES. 1 23 

“Your assortment of breads is varied,” he 
observed, taking up a bit in his fingers. “This 
is regular old-fashioned hoe-cake ; and here I 
see part of a pone ; and this is beat-biscuit. I’m 
sure. Have you made a study of Southern 
breads, Madame } I once saw six varieties of 
bread on a Southern woman’s table, and made 
it a point to learn how they were all com- 
pounded. Do know ” 

“ Southern servants will teach any woman to 
be a Southern mistress, by degrees,” Mme. Or- 
lanoff answered indifferently. 

“From all that I hear, — I go South every 
winter,” — Blount said, “ it is more laborious to 
keep house in this country than anywhere else 
in the United States. The servants are said 
to be useless since freedom.” 

Mme. Orlanoff smiled faintly. She did not 
care to indulge in old women’s gossip over ser- 
vants with this easy-tongued visitor. Blount 
looked up to Laurens. 

“Are the laborers worth any thing here 1 ” he 
inquired. 

“ They would do very well if they were not 
haunted and harangued by a set of carpet- 


124 


THE GEORGIANS. 


bag Yankees,” Laurens answered him bluntly. 
“The South ought to have a chance to accom- 
modate herself to the times. There are just 
men and true who would have led us out of this 
peril long ago if it had not been for the inva- 
sion of an antagpnistic, inexperienced North- 
ern mob since the war.” 

Blount laughed. Laurens flushed. He was 
not very well aware of what he was saying : he 
felt only a wish to affront the man who 
attempted such a familiar tone with their 
hostess. 

“You secessionists are all good haters,” 
Blount said carelessly. 

“Yes, quick to strike, and hard to be 
checked,” Laurens answered, not pausing to 
disabuse his enemy’s mind as to his politics. 

Mme. Orlanoff rose, preventing Blount’s 
ready retort. “ Let us go and feed the fishes,” 
she said serenely. “ But you must not speak 
a word, for they will not come to me if you 
do.” 

All three walked to the water’s edge softly, 
and Mme. Orlanoff threw in the crumbs of 
bread at her usual place: she was evidently 


BENEATH THE FINES. 12$ 

expected, for the water rippled immediately, 
and shining small bodies began to dart to and 
fro. The fish were not lar^e, but many; and 
Mme. Orlanoff looked at them for some time, 
with as much satisfaction, apparently, as if they 
were the finest of their kind. 

As she turned from the lake, and moved 
towards the bench, Blount alone accompanied 
her. Laurens walked along the margin of the 
pond until he came to the place where a rather 
heavy flat-bottomed boat was tied up. If he 
had intended to ask Mme. Orlanoff to enter it, 
he changed his mind after glancing back ; but 
he stepped into it himself after untying the 
rope, and pushed off with one of the old oars 
that lay in the boat. He rowed slowly across 
to the tree in which his sister and Jack Stevens 
were sitting, and, halting a whjle, parleyed with 
them ; yet, though he was kindly as always, 
Kate detected a shadow on his face, and won- 
dered if he were displeased by her tite-d-tite 
with Jack Stevens. Before she had decided to 
propose that they should join him in the boat, 
however, he nodded, and paddled away. 

Jack, who had quick eyes and as quick intui- 


126 


THE GEORGIANS. 


tions, felt Kate’s little flutter, and caught the 
gloom upon her brother’s face : he shot a swift 
glance in the direction of the- others, and saw 
Mme. Orlanoff and Blount beneath the willow. 
He was aware that Laurens and the hitherto 
inaccessible beauty had been alone when they 
came on the scene ; arid he leaped at once to 
his conclusions. 

What a handsome man your brother is ! ” 
he said to Kate as Laurens left them. 

I don’t know,” Kate answered, slowly. 
“ He is big and fine-looking, of course : but his 
features are not what I call handsome ; they are 
regular enough, but, somehow — heavy.” 

He is handsome as great actors are hand- 
some,” Jack declared. “ He could express 
every emotion vividly with such large, well- 
defined features,^ and those magnificent dark 
eyes of his.” 

“ Dark } they’re gray,” Kate protested. 

*‘They look to me black as midnight,” Jack 
persisted. ‘‘He is awfully handsome, you 
know, and you needn’t be modest about it. 
He’s only your brother, — no need to waste 
blushes on him. How long has he known 
Mme. Orlanoff?” 


BENEATH THE FINES. 12 / 

''How long?” with surprise. "I have known 
her ten days now, I think. Of course we 
knew of her before that. But I don’t think 
Mark met her before I was hurt, one week ago. 
We have seen her every day since that time.” 

" Every day ? ah ! And then he is a typical 
Southerner, dark, solemn, intense, — it’s all 
right.” 

"Mr. Stevens ! ” 

"I beg your pardon,” Jack said, with a boy- 
ish, half-apologetic laugh. "I am such a gossip ! 

I vex my dear mother to death by my resem^ 
blance to her. And I am always thinking I see 
a little more than any one else, — that’s all. I 
dare say I’m impertinent sometimes.” 

Kate said nothing, but looked steadily down 
at a fan in her lap. Jack lightly snatched it 
away. 

"Your brother’s face is not half so expressive 
as yours, after all ! ” he exclaimed. " A while 
ago you might have sat for a sculptor as 
'Youthful Serenity:’ now” — 

" Do you know, I think you are rather imper- 
tinent ? ” Kate said, lifting her brown eyes, and 
fixing them on hifn sedately. 


128 


THE GEORGIANS. 


“I beg your pardon,” Jack entreated humbly. 
“I never knew a young lady who made me say 
that so often. But I don’t want to offend you. 
I hope you will let me know whenever I begin, 
and never let me err past forgiveness, and I’ll 
try to do better.” 

Kate smiled a little. Jack valued — at least 
for the moment — this chary smile more than 
all those won so freely from more familiar lips. 

“They are going,” she said suddenly, looking 
across to where Mme. Orlanoff and Blount had 
been sitting. They had risen, and were moving 
towards the homeward path. “We must go 
too.” 

Jack helped her down, and they followed the 
other two. Half way through the wood Laurens 
overtook them, and walked with them to the 
house. His tardy recognition of Mme. Orlan- 
off’s signal to return to shore had given Blount 
the pleasure of being her sole escort on the 
homeward way. He would have been unspeak- 
ably chagrined had he overheard Blount’s airy 
mention of him, suggested by a suspicion as to 
his reason for withdrawing. 

“Your neighbor, Madame, — the young man 


BENEATH THE PINES. 1 29 

who admires you, — what is his name ? ” Blount 
asked coolly. 

^‘I am never approached by any one who 
professes to admire me,” Mme. Orlanoff an- 
swered freezingly. 

*‘You are inaccessible still to any man’s 
devotion ^ ” 

“I am what I have always been,” she replied, 
in the tone of one who is bored. 

“Pardon me,” Blount said, with rash insist- 
ance, “ I have heard no news of you for a long 
time : I do not even know whether Count Or- 
lanoff is still living or no.” 

“It would not affect my repugnance to the 
careless connection of my name with that of 
any man, whether I were married or free,” 
Mme. Orlanoff replied with a- slow distinctness 
sufficiently expressive of her displeasure. 

“Will you forgive me ? ” Blount said. 

She bowed coldly; and then a glance at 
his face disarmed her. A sandy-complexioned, 
middle-aged man, with anxious eyes and a per- 
spiring forehead, who looks decidedly too warm 
in his dark-blue flannel garments, and alto- 
gether too rotund for romance, is not the most 


130 


THE GEORGIANS. 


dangerous lover in the world. Mme. Orlanoff 
felt herself ablo to pity him without fear of 
further relentings. She spoke to him again, 
therefore, after a pause, upon an indifferent 
matter; and they were seated upon the piazza, 
amiably conversing, when the others came up. 

The scene which had taken place in the 
deserted parlor during their absence may be 
briefly told. 

Mamma, what is the matter.^ Don’t look 
so anxious,” Bride had protested, as she became 
fully conscious under the breeze of her mother’s 
fan. “ It is nothing : I often feel faint in the 
middle of the day. Did I fall 1 ” 

‘‘No, you didn’t faint quite away, darling; 
you turned pale, and sat down,” said Mrs.' 
Davidge, still much fluttered by this slight 
event. Bride was all that she had. 

“Capt. Ferguson,” Bride said, suddenly col- 
oring as she saw him standing by the window, 
“ come and tell me the news from the country 
you dropped from. Was it the moon } Put 
down your hat, please : it makes me nervous 
to see you stand twisting it.” 

Her recovery of herself, and the saucy words 


BENEATH THE FINES. 131 

which she uttered, restored the captain’s self- 
possession. 

“ May I relieve you of that fan, Mrs. 
Davidge.?” he said, holding out his hand for 
the article in question. ** And,” frankly, “may 
I see Miss Bride alone for five minutes } ” 

“Bride is not strong yet,” Mrs. Davidge 
began, when Bride’s hand pinched hers shyly. 
She rose with nervous haste. “ I will go and 
bring down my smelling-salts. She must not be 
allowed to talk much while I’m gone, — not 
even to an old friend,” said the poor lady, who 
cast on the young man a half-imploring look, 
and then went away, raising one hand, as she 
reached the door, to a falling lock of the white 
hair that blew across her pallid cheek. Then 
Capt. Ferguson closed the door, and came back 
to Bride. 

“You always were fond of surprises,” she 
said, with a defiant little laugh, looking up at 
him. “You really startled me when you came 
in ; but I had been feeling ill all the morning. 
I hope you won’t think I’m such a goose as to 
faint simply because you entered the room. 
You won’t, will you.? I am glad mamma’s 


132 


THE GEORGIANS. 


gone. I can tell you what she doesn’t know 
to this day, — that I fainted twiccy just before 
Christmas, once in a young minister’s arms, and 
once before he got to me, while a crowd of us 
were making Christmas wreaths. I don’t tell 
mamma ; she gets nervous.” 

Capt. Ferguson stood looking down at her 
with an expression of deep concern. 

“You must have grown very delicate; you 
used to be so strong, — the lightest, lithest, 
most active girl I ever saw,” he said, with 
evident earnestness. 

“ Oh, well ! I only faint more easily than 
other girls. Mamma did, as a girl. And then 
I am always so reckless, she says. I am always 
coquetting with some careless fellow who gets 
me thrown from my horse, or ducked into a 
river. I am the most accide7ttal girl you ever 
saw.” 

Her blithe, well-known air restored Ferguson’s 
spirits. 

“ Bride,” he began. 

“Tell me how you came here ; did you know 
Jack was coming ” she asked hastily. 

“ Yes : he invited me to come with him, but 


BENEATH THE FINES. 1 33 

I declined ; then I changed my decision, and 
followed. Of course I was coming to see you 
as soon as I knew you were here, but at first I 
didn’t want to meet you in a crowd. After- 
wards I thought ” — 

“Never mind. Do you know Mr. Blount.^ 
How old is he } Isn’t he very rich } Jack says 
he is a mere idler. Do tell me ; it is my ambi- 
tion to meet a live millionnaire. I never knew 
an unmarried one yet.” 

“ Are you not engaged. Bride 1 let me ask ; 
not that I have the right ” — 

“Very true. But, if you care to know, no 
one yet has bid high enough.” 

“ Bride, I know more of life than I did when 
I lost you. I ought never to have believed 
what you said against yourself. You said — 
Do you remember 1 you said you would marry 
me if I were rich. If I ask you now” — 

“ Well, are you rich now } ” Bride demanded 
with a desperate rally of her reckless spirits. 

“Yes, I have been left a small fortune,” he * 
answered with candid simplicity. 

“ Then I’ll never marry you ! ” Bride cried, 
starting to her feet, while her face flashed out 


134 


THE GEORGIANS. 


genuine grief and chagrin. “ O Thod ! All 
these years I have thought, if I could see you 
again, could convince you ” — . 

“ My darling, my wilful one, only sweetheart, 
I am convinced,” Ferguson said from the depths 
of his heart, clasping her in his arms, where 
she struggled a moment, then yielded ; and 
Ferguson, bending, pressed on the shy, unused 
lips of his sweetheart the first lover’s kiss they 
ever had known. 

She told him, by and by, that it was the first. 

As to all my old flirtations, Thod, you know 
they were mere surface affairs. I never cared 
for any man but you, and I don’t think more 
than two ever meant a word of love they ever 
spoke. And, of the men who’ve been my 
sweethearts and friends. I’ve never let one so 
much as hold my hand ; not even Jack, who has 
been in every other respect just like a brother.” 

“I know it. Bride,” her Theodoric said cor- 
dially. He was too frank and generous to need 
Bride’s assurances ; but she persisted. He had 
already been catechised and absolved. 

“ Well, I thought I would tell you, you know, 
because some girls have been spiteful about 


BENEATH THE FINES. 1 35 

me, and said little mean things. But there are 
girls who are called fast, and have the satisfac- 
tion of knowing they’re honorable; and there 
are girls who have the satisfaction of being 
called h’onorable, and knowing they’re fast. 
You know which Bride Davidge is, don’t you } ” 
“I know which my sweetheart is. Bride Fer- 
guson that soon shall be.” 

And then Mrs. Davidge came in, and Bride 
went up to her with her lover, and kissed her 
with her cheeks all aglow; and they were all 
three together talking apparently in the calmest 
manner, when Jack looked in to say he must go, 
and the three' gentlemen took leave together. 






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MA Y DA YS. 


139 


CHAPTER VII. 

MAY DAYS. 

IV TO day passed at The Pines during May 
^ without bringing guests. Mme. Orlanoff 
had modified her determination in regard to 
society, and had set herself to make this a gay 
season for the *two young girls, towards whom 
her heart had grown very warm. Separated 
from them by only a few years in point of age, 
but by a lifetime of thought and experience, 
she felt a motherly yearning over them ; and 
their happiness was to her a matter of daily 
concern. 

“ Every one should have some beatix jotu's," 
she said to Kate in her caressing voice, as they 
two, from the window, watched Bride and 
Capt. Ferguson strolling towards the lake. 
“ Bride has hers now, and yours will come. 
Ah, my dear! if I could be your good fairy. 


140 


THE GEORGIANS. 


how safe and peaceful the waters should be 
through which I’d guide your boat ! ” 

Bride’s laugh floated back on the air. She 
was always gay in these days, sometimes teasing, 
and sometimes amusing her fianci. Her con- 
quests had always begun by a man’s thinking 
her the j oiliest of comrades, and ended in his 
conclusion that he would be eternally lonesome 
without her. The love that she won was honest, 
daylight, laughter-enduring love ; and none but 
Ferguson, and rarely he, had ever seen her brave 
blue eyes betray any sentimental feeling, or her 
cheek flush except with exercise or sunburn. 
Her laugh died away as they passed out of view ; 
and Mme. Orlanoff looked down at Kate, who 
leaned across her knee to look out, and she saw 
a wistful shade in the clear hazel eyes. 

‘‘Bride will always be merry in this world,” 
Kate said, not enviously, but in a tone that 
matched the look in her eyes. 

“ I hope so. At least. Bride will take trouble 
as lightly as possible. Her nature is buoyant.- 
And it does not take so much to make her 
happy as it would to make you so, Kate.” 

“Oh! I am very happy just now. I was 


MA y DA VS. 


I4I 

never so jolly — at least, not since I left board- 
ing-school — as you have made me for this 
whole month past.” 

“What have you enjoyed so much, Kate.^” 

“Why, every thing. Being with you so 
often,” — shyly. “You don’t know how differ- 
ent you are from everybody else. Then the 
music, and so many new people, — that queer 
Mr. Blount, and all of them.” 

“How did you like the ladies who called 
yesterday } ” 

“The ladies from the barracks, or the Pick- 
ens girls ? ” 

“I meant the general’s wife and Capt. Fer- 
guson’s cousins. The others you knew before ; 
did you not } ” 

“No, scarcely at all. I have seen them at 
church. They are our nearest neighbors after 
you ; but they never have called on me, because 
their father and mine differed in politics. I 
liked the others very much ; the general’s wife 
was so handsome, — like Martha Washington.” 

“Kate, who is this coming.?” 

“Where.? Oh, Mine. Orlanoff! that is the 
funniest little old woman.” 


142 . 


THE GEORGIANS. 


^^Who is she.^ ” 

*‘Miss Palestine Hyman, one of our poor 
neighbors. She lives in that little house set so 
close to the road, in the hollow there. She is 
very nice. Before the war they were rather 
well off, it is said ; but they lost their few ne- 
groes, and her father and mother were helpless 
and old. Her father used to come to church 
every time the bell was tapped, — a queer-look- 
ing old man, with white hair and a hanging 
under lip : his shoulders were always humped, 
as if carrying a shawl had made him stoop ; 
for of course he wore a shawl, and carried a 
cane, like all old countrymen. The old mother 
sat by the fire all the time, and dipped snuff ; 
and when her husband died she took to her bed, 
and has never been very well since.” 

“You know all about them, it seems,” Mme. 
Orlanoff said, keeping her eyes on the advan- 
cing figure. 

“ Yes : they go to our church, and Mark was 
very good to them when the old father died. 
He keeps an eye on all our poor members.” 

Mme. Orlanoff rose as the thin, wiry, diminu- 
ative form of Miss Palestine appeared at the 
window ; and Kate said, — 


MAYDAYS. J43 

“How are you, Miss Tiny? This is Mme. 
Orlanoff.” 

“Why, howdy. Miss Kate?” said the new- 
comer, smiling on the young girl in a friendly 
way. “ Good-mornin’, ma’am,” to Mme. Orlan- 
off. 

“ Good-morning,” that lady replied : “will you 
come in. Miss — Palestina ? ” 

“ Ain’t she a dukess, or something like that ? ” 
Miss Palestine demanded of Kate in a stage 
aside. “ Tell me what to call her, — do, quick ! ” 

“Call her Madame, Miss Tiny,” Kate said, 
forcing back a laugh. “That will do very 
well.” 

“Well, excuse my manners, but I reely ain’t 
got the rights o’ your name,” Miss Tiny ex- 
claimed, blurting out the truth as she turned to 
face Mme. Orlanoff. “What is your nobility, 
anyway? I’m willing to call you whatever 
you’re used to ; but it’s all plain Miss an’ Missis 
here.” 

“My name is Orlanoff,” Felicia said: “you 
will find it easy to address me as Madame.” 

“Well, maybe I shall, an’ maybe I sha’n’t,” 
said Miss Tiny, taking a seat. “ I come on a 


144 


THE GEORGIANS. 


little business this mornin’/’ pulling down her 
short and scanty gray alpaca skirt as if to con* 
ceal her poor shoes. “ Ma, she is down poorly, 
an’ I want to make her a little chicken-soup, 
an’ all ourn is dead o’ cholera : an’ I hearn that 
your niggers had raised a power o’ chickens for 
you ; so I come up to see if you could lemme 
ha’ a few, an’ lemme pay back in what I can do 
for you’s well as another. I’m a good hand at 
quiltin’, an’ makin’ jellies an’ preserves ; I bin 
housekeeper to the Elliots for two year while 
the ol’ folks was in Alabama with Jim ; an’ I 
can make cake o’ all sorts. I hearn some talk 
of a weddin’ up here, an’ I knew my services 
would come in handy. What says you ? ” 

“You are quite welcome to a pair of chick- 
ens, Miss Palestina, and can get them as often 
as you need them, and they are to spare, while 
your mother is ill. If I need any assistance at 
any time when it will suit you to come, I will 
then let you know.” 

“Well, now, that’s real neighborly in you!” 
Miss Palestine exclaimed. “ I hearn tell you 
was real good in case o’ sickness too. Folks 
say you healed up Miss Kate’s burns quicker’n 


MAY DAYS. 


145 


any town doctor. I wish you’d step down an’ 
take a look at ma some day : she’s got a sorter 
low fever.” 

I can be of any use I shall be glad to 
come,” Felicia said kindly. 

‘‘Well, I reckon I’d better git on,” re-tying 
the worn strings of her black bonnet under her 
sharp, withered chin. “How much is them 
chickens worth, madam Quarter apiece, ain’t 
they .? ” 

“Whatever you say. Miss Palestina.” 

“ Well, I come by the week for two dollars a 
week, and I charge a dollar an’ a half for a 
pretty sizable bed-quilt,” Miss Palestine said, 
rising, and taking up a basket she had set 
down just inside the window. “Mornin’, la- 
dies. I’ll go round an’ git Aunt Easter to put 
up them chickens ’thout botherin’ you, Mme. 
Damiloff. Good-day, ma’am ; ” and the light, 
thin little figure trotted away. 

Mme. Orlanoff sat down, and indulged in one 
of her rare, low, musical laughs. 

“ Kate, Kate, do I look like a market-woman } 
How much do I ask for a chicken ” 

“ Oh, Miss Tiny is so independent ! ” Kate 


146 


THE GEORGIANS. 


said, laughing too : “ she will give you no peace 
now until you employ her, and let her ‘pay up.’ 
She will come and get your chickens as long as 
she feels she can pay for them ; but she could 
not be induced to take them from you, a stran- 
ger, as a gift.” 

She becomes formidable. I am sure that I 
shall not need her assistance in stirring up 
Bride’s two or three wedding-cakes. That will 
be a very simple affair; a little supper, some 
music and dancing” — 

“ Dancing ! ” Kate exclaimed : dear me ! 
how long is it since I had a dance } ” 

‘‘How long? Well, I have just come to 
invite you to one,” Jack Stevens said, his bright 
face appearing at the window ; while Laurens, 
who had fallen in with him just as he was tying 
his horse under the trees, entered at the hall- 
door. “Good-morning, Madame. There is to 
. be a hop at the barracks next week, — a ball, 
you know, Mme. Orlanoff ; and Mr. Blount, 
Capt. Ferguson, and I want to come out, and 
bring you all in to it. Will you come ? ” di- 
rectly to Kate. 

“ Oh ! I — I suppose I cannot,” Kate an- 


MA Y DA YS. 


147 


swered in a half-startled way, glancing towards 
her brother, whom Mme. Orlanoff had welcomed, 
and who had now sat down near her. Mark 
wouldn’t let me,” she said. 

“You dance, do you not, Mr. Laurens.^ All 
Southerners do, I believe,” said Jack lightly. 

“Not at all, sir,” Laurens answered him 
dryly. “ I have never learned. I imagine that 
I should be like an elephant in a flower-bed.” 

Mme. Orlanoff’s face betrayed her surprise, 
and Laurens was nettled at once. 

“ But — Miss Laurens ” 

“ I believe Kate learned to dance at school. 
I have never seen her at it,” he said grimly. 

“Our family is Methodist,” Kate said in a 
low tone. “I suppose it’s very improper in 
me to want to dance ; but I do.” 

“People may be born Methodists without 
being born old,” Jack said, the flippancy of his 
speech subdued by his melancholy tones. “Mr. 
Laurens, I understand myself to be referred to 
you. May I not have the honor of escorting 
your sister to the officers’ ball next week ? ” 
Laurens looked doubtfully up, but in doing 
so caught Mme. Orlanoff’s glance, and the 
amiable suggestions of her smile. 


148 


THE GEORGIANS. 


^‘Kate may decide for herself,” he said as 
graciously as he could. He felt awkward, — 
angry at his own ignorance. He fancied that 
Mme. Orlanoff thought him a boor, a lout, a 
thousand times removed from the men of the 
world who had formerly surrounded her. Kate 
sprang up with delight at his consent, and Jack 
took her away to find Bride and Ferguson. 
Mark sat rather awkward and silent. He did 
not guess that Mme. Orlanoff found in his very 
unconformity to social customs a quaint delight. 
The fact that he was a Methodist, — a sect of 
which she had only a vague idea, connected with 
Whitefield and the Wesleys, and suggestive of 
an almost fanatical religious zeal and devotion, 

— and the circumstance of his having never 
even learned to dance, made his character a 
more recondite and problematic study, and gave 
him new consideration in her eyes ; and, while 
she wished Kate to dance if she liked, not only 
her interest in Laurens was increased by his not 
doing so, but her regard for him was enhanced. 
A dawning idea of what his past life had been 

— secluded, religious, chaste, and manly — came 
into her mind, and made her care to know more 


MA Y DA YS. 


149 


of him. His first words, however, betrayed his 
unconsciousness of having won her approval. 

*‘You find us very provincial, Madame,” he 
said, unable to avoid the mention of what filled 
his heart with bitterness. 

‘‘Are consistency and loyalty to principle 
unknown, then, in the metropolis, Mr. Lau- 
rens ” 

The sweetness of the reply disarmed him : 
he could only turn on her a pair of eloquent 
and grateful eyes. 

“ I know nothing of the American Method- 
ists,” she continued after a pause. “ I have 
read a little of their work in England, and it 
would interest me to hear more of them.” 

“ My father had an uncle, a man of about his 
own age, who died at our house during the 
war,” Mark said slowly. “He had been a 
Methodist preacher from his youth. My an- 
cestors had been Church-of-England people for 
generations ; but Methodism took a great hold 
in Georgia early in this century, and the mis- 
sionaries who penetrated its borders were most- 
ly of that faith. My father was brought up as 
a Methodist ; and, as he never wavered in his 


150 


THE GEORGIANS. 


affection for that church, all my early associa- 
tions bind me to its usages and customs. The 
uncle who died at our house, however, had a 
stronger hold over me than almost any other 
person. He was one of the comparatively few 
educated men then in the itinerancy.” 

“ I beg your pardon — itinerancy ? ” 

“ Ah ! you do not know. Well, in those days 
a man who set out to preach the gospel was 
absolutely at the disposal of the bishops : he 
was expected to remain unmarried for at least 
four years, and to take charge of two or more 
different congregations, often at great distances 
from each other. He spent half his time on 
horseback, his luggage carried in a pair of sad- 
dle-bags, and was entertained at the houses of 
the people, where, if he was a junior preacher, 
he was treated with scant ceremony, sleeping 
even in cold weather in fireless rooms, or some- 
times chopping his own wood. If he did any 
reading it was on horseback, or in the gray 
dawns before continuing his endless journeys. 
He preached three or four sermons a -week, 
and lived and died in toil, hardship, and poverty, 
for the love of the work he called ‘saving souls.* 


AfA V DA YS. 


151 

My uncle had always been a pioneer ; had been 
in the newest and least settled parts of the 
country; had given up the comfortable home 
and the advantages offered by a wealthy father, 
and denied himself every selfish enjoyment ; 
and when his health was broken down, and his 
powers of endurance wasted, he spent the last 
weeks of his life in trying to infuse his spirit 
into me, and in teaching me what peace was in 
the end of a life dedicated to the service of 
others.” 

Laurens paused. He was more moved than 
he cared to show, not only by recollections of 
the past, but by the emotion which Mme. Or- 
lanoff’s beautiful face and figure bending lightly 
towards him, vivid with interest, aroused in 
him. 

‘^Did you desire such a life for yourself?” 
she asked. He hesitated a moment. 

did. For a long time I had no other 
future before my eyes. I spoke little of it, 
however. Neither my father nor my mother 
wished this for me : my father had me read law, 
and spoke of travel and worldly advantages ; 
my mother did not oppose me directly, — her 


152 


THE GEORGIANS. 


conscience would not have permitted it, — but 
she did not encourage me to speak about it. I 
was reading law with my father, in submission 
to his wishes, when he died. His last counsel 
to me was to dig for a living sooner than trust 
to preaching for a support ; and I had two to 
provide for besides myself. I have been farm- 
ing ever since I was twenty. Those who think 
I am disappointed in not pursuing the law are 
mistaken ; but I have spoken to no one of the 
higher ambition which has been frustrated. It 
has died out ; and I am not a better man for 
the loss of it.’' 

Then you would not now — ” 

“If I were free — rich.? I do not know.- I 
crave so many things of life ! . A man who is 
not a saint, as that one was, cannot always feel 
unselfish, and ready to perish for his brother. 
He comes to crave knowledge, experience, 
sights and sounds of beauty, leisure, the 
power to develop his whole nature. Some 
philosophers hold that it is man’s highest duty 
symmetrically to develop all his powers ; to 
leave no portion of his being neglected, no joy 
he was framed for untasted.” 


MAYDAYS, 153 

His great moody eyes, turned now and then 
upon her, were full of thought and feeling, 
intense, passionate questioning. The young 
man’s soul was bared to the eyes of the woman 
he loved ; and she, who had frequently been 
called upon for her sympathy, did not fully 
realize the influence which had so unlocked the 
lips of a usually self-contained and silent man. 

“You have read ‘Wilhelm Meister’.?” she 
said. 

He bowed. 

“Yes, it is Goethe’s creed,” she continued. . 
“No doubt it is fascinating. Women are 
required by society to attempt this broadness 
of interest, this varied culture that fits them 
for all pleasures. Trained to be a helpmate 
and sympathetic companion to some unknown 
man, a woman must be able to adapt herself to 
a variety of men. To be successful in society, 
she must be intelligent about many things. 
The changes of her own emotions and experi- 
ences are manifold ; and then, if she has a 
specialty to fall back upon when disappointed 
in all things else, or when forced to act as an 
individual, and not as a companion, so much the 


154 


THE GEORGIANS. 


better. We are called shallow, you know, 
because we must overflow at all points. We 
must attempt this symmetrical development of 
all our powers ; and women have thought with 
the wise, been glad with the gay, wept with the 
sorrowful, agonized with the martyr, aspired 
with the great.” 

“ How her idea of self-development differs 
from mine!” Laurens was thinking. *^Her 
idea is a beautiful self-abnegation : mine was a 
brutal self-assertion. Hers is, ‘that I may help 
^ all ; ’ mine, ‘ that I may possess all.’ ” 

“But I think most of this new culture a 
mistake,” she went on, leaning back wearily. 
“ If a soul dear to me could benefit by my 
advice, I should say. Try not so much to put 
forth all your powers, but your best powers. 
Care not to feel with all men, but with the 
highest men. Dare to be narrow ; dare to be 
special ; dare to confine yourself to the one 
best thing. It is the men of one idea who do 
the great things, however folk prate about the 
comprehensive mind that generalizes and formu- 
lates the results of the patient toil of others.” 

Laurens was silent, but meditating reply. 


MA Y DA YS. 


155 


It jarred on him painfully when he heard the 
voices of the young people returning. He 
rose, but did not take leave as he had at first 
intended to. Mme. Orlanoff rose when he did, 
and moved towards the piano. She sat down 
at it, and struck a few chords. He drew near. 
She had never before touched any instrument 
of music in his presence. She played now only 
a few moments, the perplexed chords changing 
into a slow, melodious march, and that increas- 
ing in volume and spirit, until, as the rest of 
the party entered, they were greeted with the 
final crashing chords of what sounded like an 
outburst of triumphal music. 

A few minutes later, when Mrs. Davidge 
entered the room, looking rather paler than 
usual, if possible, Felicia rose and went out. 
Returning, she was followed by Seneca, jun., 
who had recently been promoted to the dining- 
room from the stable, and who wore his white 
jacket and apron with an air of great solemnity 
and pride. He carried a tray with decanters, 
wine-glasses, and cake, and went first to Mrs. 
Davidge, who accepted a glass of wine very 
gratefully. Mme. Orlanoff turned to Laurens 


156 


THE GEORGIANS. 


to hand him a glass of wine ; and he took it, 
though with a peculiar expression which she 
noted : he held it a moment untasted, declin- 
ing the cake, and then quietly set the glass 
down. 

“To the health of the ladies, Ferguson, Mr. 
Laurens,” Jack gayly said, lifting his glass. 

Laurens raised his own. She herself, ihe 
purest of women, had handed it to him ; gra- 
cious, tolerant, she might be, but woufd not any 
woman of the world consider him an utter bar- 
barian and uncivilized if he refused to honor 
such a toast ? He had withstood minor tempta- 
tions easily : it was nothing to him to refuse 
social conformity elsewhere, but here he was 
weak. Might he not — 

Kate’s glass was untouched, he saw. She 
did not even betray the least embarrassment. 
It was a matter of course to her, pure and 
single-hearted, to be true to the teachings of 
her mother, the rules of her home. Her serene 
good faith helped him. He bowed silently over 
his untasted glass, without glancing towards 
Mme. Orlanoff. 

“ Don’t you ever drink, Mr. Laurens ? ” care- 
lessly asked Bride, who was near him. 


MAY DAYS. 157 

‘‘ I never do,” he replied, with apparent com- 
posure. 

I wish more men could say the same,” she 
said cordially. “Not but that I’m very fond 
of wine, myself,” with a little laugh; “but I 
think men. are better without it. That is just 
where Felise and I differ. She will let any one 
have it who wants it, and I have it whenever I 
like ; but she never touches a drop herself.” 

How pitiful, how little, the conquered tempta- 
tion was now ! The only person who observed 
had approved him. No one exceeded one glass ; 
and Capt. Ferguson, who knew that Bride’s 
bitter remembrance of her father’s besetting 
sin made her dislike to see any man fond of 
wine, set down his glass half-empty, although 
Bride and her mother and Jack did not scruple 
to enjoy their own. Laurens felt humiliated 
that it had been such an effort to be faithful to 
his ideas of duty ; for it had cost a strong effort. 
One who, unsuspected by him, had perceived it, 
turned two softly brilliant eyes from his face ; 
and as she smiled full on Kate, for lack of other 
plausible object, the first thought which had 
ever dawned on the mind of Mme. Orlanoff, 


158 , THE GEORGIANS. 

connecting herself ever so slightly with - any 
man but the one who had wrought her so much 
harm, passed into it insensibly : — 

“That man, brave and loyal, if he had once 
possessed the confidence of such a woman as I, 
would never have forfeited it. A woman would 
found her house upon a rock who put her trust 
in that young, unworldly, unusual man.” 


“ Surely whoever speaks to me in the right voice^ him or her 
shall I follow. 

As the water follozos the 7noon, silently, with fluid steps, any- 
where around the globed 


Walt Whitman. 


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St/JVnAV: AND A SEA’ A/0 iV. 


6l 


CHAPTER VIII. 

SUNDAY : AND A SERMON. 

TT was the next Sunday afternoon, and still- 
^ ness reigned about The Pines. Kate, who 
now passed half her time there, was reading 
up-stairs. Bride had fallen asleep ; and Mrs. 
Davidge, sitting by her window, was enjoying 
the cool breeze that had followed the brief, 
violent thunder-storm of the morning. Mme. 
Orlanoff was not in the house. 

It was very quiet. The light sound of the 
rustling trees alone relieved the silence. The 
servants’ houses were empty : every one had 
vanished, going either to church, or to spend 
the holiday hours anywhere but at home ; every 
one except old Seneca, who was asleep in the 
shade by the doorway of his room, his chair 
tilted back against the house. 

The still and sabbatical aspect of every thing 


62 


THE GEORGIANS. 


smote on the heart of young Laurens, who had 
strolled over from home, and now stood under 
the pines, near the house. He hesitated about 
advancing, and came to a halt. Glancing down, 
his eyes fell upon a slender sandy wash-out of 
the clayey road, swept by the morning’s shower, 
and still damp enough to retain an impression. 
Chance, or some good power, had directed that 
a delicate foot-print there, with the heel turned 
towards the house, should indicate to him that 
Mme. Orlanoff had strolled away from the 
house. It was the print of a lady’s shoe ; and 
it was slenderer and smaller than Kate’s, he 
thought, while Bride’s hands and feet were not 
pretty. He turned then, and followed the foot- 
prints, of which several were on the sandy strip, 
until they were lost in the pine-needles. Fol- 
lowing the path through the grove, he came out 
on the lake. The bench under the willow, hot 
and dry in the sunlight, was empty ; but at the 
farther end of the lake, in the gnarled oak 
which overhung the water, he caught the gleam 
of white. In a moment he was near the tree, 
and saw distinctly mirrored in the water below, 
a long, graceful figure reclining upon an out- 


SUNDAY: AND A SERMON. 1 63 

stretched, overhanging limb of the tree, as 
if it had been a couch. Leaves danced all 
about it, in sunshine and shadow. One arm 
was raised, the hand holding a branch of the 
honeysuckle vine which had tangled itself 
through the tree ; the other arm supported her 
head in the most comfortable way. Placidly 
lying there, Mme. Orlanoff seemed quite uncon- 
scious of or indifferent to the fact that a Revue 
des Deux Mondes had dropped from her lap to 
the water, and was floating thereon, amid a fairy 
fleet of fallen blossoms. The sky was taking 
on its evening glories, and the smooth water 
glimmered with opaline tints. On the topmost 
spray of the tree a mocking-bird was singing, 
and she was listening to him enraptured. - 

A little gust of wind rustled the leaves more 
freshly ; the songster took flight ; Mme. Orlan- 
off, in order to put up a hand and brush back 
the hair that had blown across her eyes, had to 
change her position. Sitting up, just as Lau- 
rens moved towards her, she saw him through 
the leaves. 

“Mr. Laurens! You are too late,” she said, 
but with a playful smile which re-assured him 


1 64 the GEORGIANS. 

as to his welcome. “ Church is quite over ; I 
have finished the sermon, and the chorister is 
just gone.” 

‘‘I am sorry that I missed that sermon,” 
Laurens said, leaning among the branches, and 
looking up to her face, a little above his own. 
“ Can’t you furnish me with the text and the 
heads of the discourse ? ” 

“ No. It was preached to a class of hearers 
to which you do not belong,” she said, shaking 
her head. “But tell me — you who were to 
have taken us to hear that Methodist preacher 
this morning — did you go by yourself in the 
rain ? and will he preach here any more ? ” 

“Yes: I heard him this morning, and he 
preaches again to-night.” 

“Then we will have the carriage after tea, 
and Kate and I will yet go with you to hear 
him.” 

“ I find,” Laurens said, with embarrassment, 
“ that a series of meetings — or what we call a 
' protracted meeting ’ — began at the church 
last Friday night. You will perhaps get a false 
impression of what Methodism really is, when 
preacher and people are laboring under the 


SUNDAY: AND A SB DM0 N 1 65 

excitement of a revival. Besides, this man is 
not so good as I had expected.” 

Has Kate ever been to a revival } ” 
Certainly. But they do not affect her. 
She has never yet joined the church.” 

“Do most people join the church at re- 
vivals.^” ^ 

“A majority do, I suppose.” 

“ Is that why they are called revivals ? ” 

“ I will tell you, as well as I can. When 
there is a protracted meeting, that is, when 
meetings are held every day, the members of 
the church, especially those who usually help 
the preacher most, unite in offering prayers for 
those who are not yet pledged to the service of 
God ; and for those who are, that their earnest- 
ness and devotion may be renewed, or revived ; 
that is what they pray for, — a revival. The 
preachers address special sermons, or rather 
talks, to various classes of people in the con- 
gregation, — to young men, to parents, to chil- 
dren, to the unconverted generally, or to the 
cold and indifferent among the members. They 
are encouraged and invited to confess their 
shortcomings publicly, and their need of assist- 


THE GEORGIANS. 


*i66 

ance ; or to tell what strength and blessing 
they have obtained, to arouse hope of better 
things in the despairing. It is meant that the 
church should be a brotherhood, and that all 
should try to help one another. This is the 
whole plan. A successful revival results, as I ' 
believe, in much good. Old- quarrels are made 
up among church-members ; bad habits are 
shaken off ; resolutions are confirmed by the 
public sympathy and expectation ; families be- 
come more united ; the people who have been 
moved become more used to pray and to read 
their Bibles ; a great many find a peace and 
form a purpose more lofty than they ever knew 
before.” 

“ Then, why may I not go to a revival ? ” 
Mme. Orlanoff asked simply. 

He made no reply for a moment. He felt it 
difficult to understand her. How could he tell 
her that he had been so foolish as to doubt 
her sympathy with all efforts for good, so cow- 
ardly as to half wish to deny the faith if she 
should laugh at it } It had been with some- 
thing of an effort that he had spoken in behalf 
of its customs. 


SUNDAY: AND A SERMON 167 

*‘I should like you to go,” he said at last. 
‘‘You will be able to understand the meaning 
that underlies some uncouth expressions, some 
grotesque developments. It will all be very 
strange to you. It will not be your way of 
drawing near to God. But some souls do draw 
nearer to Him in this way.” 

“Believe me, I am not going to criticise,” 
she said. “I should like to go, and — and feel 
with good people. Will you give me your 
hand } I should like to come down now.” 

He held out his hand; though he would have 
liked to cry, “ Stay where you are ! you look 
most beautiful!” — but she willed it, and de- 
scended, holding by his hand firmly, and step- 
ping down quickly and easily. 

“ Now your book,” he said, glancing about 
for a stick by which to fish it up. 

“ Oh, that’s of no consequence ! ” she said. 
“I have not been reading. Come, let us go 
back to the house.” 

At a little before eight o’clock that night 
Mme. Orlanoff’s carriage stopped in front of a 
small wooden Methodist church about half a 


THE GEORGIANS. 


1 68 

mile from The Pines ; and Laurens, descend- 
ing, gave her his hand to assist her in alighting. 
They had come without any one else in the 
party, all but themselves seeming disinclined to 
go. Mme. Orlanoff, who was seriously inter- 
ested in the plan, had quietly consented to go 
with Laurens alone. It was an inconsistent 
act ; and she had felt that Mrs. Davidge was 
surprised at it, but wilfully disregarded that 
fact. Half way to church they passed a car- 
riage containing three gentlemen. The girls 
had perhaps expected these not infrequent 
visitors when they declined to go out. Mme. 
Orlanoff colored under cover of the darkness 
as she recognized Blount’s voice. She knew the 
construction that he would place' upon this ex- 
cursion, and, annoyed at the idea, privately re- 
solved to be more discreet in future, and have 
no more tite-a-tetes with Laurens. 

As he handed her out at the church-door, 
however, she wore her own calm, intelligent, 
gentle expression. She passed silently into 
the building at his side, and took a seat which 
he indicated on one of the few cushioned 
benches. 


SC/ATBAV: AND A S ED MON. 1 69 

The church was capable of seating a hundred 
and fifty or two hundred people. It was two- 
thirds full, although the services had not yet 
begun ; and the eyes of most of the people 
were turned upon the foreign lady as she passed 
up the aisle. Laurens’s dark cheek wore an 
unaccustomed flush, for he saw all this ; but her 
downcast eyes and serious expression convinced 
the simplest that she had come here with no 
worldly thoughts. When she sat down, and 
looked about her, her face wore no critical 
look ; yet she saw every peculiar feature of the 
assembly. The congregation was composed 
largely of young people, men and maids paired 
as were Laurens and herself, and country-girls 
in groups of two or three, who had had no 
special escorts, but would perhaps have such 
on the homeward way. Almost all of them 
were plainly dressed, more perhaps because 
most of them were comparatively poor than 
because of their obedience to church rules : but 
there were touches of gay apparel here and 
there ; the pretty girl who sat by the melodeon, 
and afterwards played on it, had a noticeable 
hat, its flaring brim faced with pale-blue shirr- 


THE GEORGIANS. 


170 

ings, and a long white feather curled about the 
brim ; the “ Pickens girls ” and their corpulent 
mother wore a good deal of jewelry, and black 
silk dresses with many sparkling beads in the 
trimming; and here and there a rose-colored 
“crochet shawl” or a pair of light kid gloves 
showed a youthful taste for gay colors. Taken 
all together, the people were fair representatives 
of the surrounding population, which was made 
up of plain, simple country-people, store-keepers 
and farmers, and the families of men whose, 
business was in the city, or, as in the Pickens 
case, of politicians hovering between the State 
and National capital. 

A little stir at the door, and two men entered, 
and walked together up the church aisle, 
followed, as far as the back benches, by a 
little rabble of young men and boys who had 
been lounging at the door until the preachers 
should come. The young girl at the melodeon 
drew out two or three stops, and began to play 
a hymn-tune as a voluntary. One of the two 
preachers stopped half-way up the aisle, and 
whispered to Laurens. 

“Brother Laurens, I shall call on you to 


SUNDAY: AND A SERMON I /I 

lead US in prayer,” Mme. Orlanoff heard him 
say; and he passed on without giving time for 
the utterance of the refusal that rose to Mark’s 
lips. The young man flushed with a slow, 
reluctant glow, and his mouth was compressed 
for a few minutes ; but a better feeling stirred 
in his .heart, and he felt strengthened rather 
than weakened by the presence beside him.. 

The two ministers ascended the side steps to 
a little platform ; and one of them sat down on 
the sofa in a recess behind the pulpit or reading- 
stand, and bowed his head on his hand, while 
the other knelt down by the stand with his face 
to the people, shut his eyes, and remained 
kneeling for some moments. Then he rose, and 
read a hymn, announcing its number ; and the 
whole congregation rose to sing, — 

“ Oh for a closer walk with God ! ” 

As the choir rose while the air was being 
played, they glanced around as if missing some 
of the usual singers ; and a young woman among 
them looked over rather archly, yet reproach- 
fully, at Mark Laurens standing up across the 
church with folded arms. He neither saw nor 


1/2 


THE GEORGIANS, 


responded to the look, but, before the first line 
had been sung, joined in with a deep, magnifi- 
cent .bass, and sang steadily all through the 
hymn. Mme. Orlanoff stood beside him : a 
book had been handed her by a gray-haired man 
in a seat near theirs, and she followed the lines 
with her eyes. Glancing up once at Laurens, 
who did not observe her, she was struck with 
the fine expression that had come over his face : 
his eyes looked darker and more dreamy, his 
countenance more unconscious and earnest, than 
usual ; and there was true feeling in the strong 
voice that sang, — 

“ The dearest idol I have known, 

Whate’er that idol be, 

Help me to tear it from Thy throne, 

And worship only Thee.” 

When the hymn ended, Laurens’s name was 
spoken by Mr. Beech, the pastor of the church ; 
and, as all heads were bowed, the strong, tall 
figure of the young man stood erect, and Lau- 
rens prayed aloud. 

It is not part of our story to report his 
prayer, but only to note the incidents which 


SUNDAY : A AD A SERMON 1 73 

had influence over the lives of these two. He 
prayed with sincere, straightforward, manly 
feeling, without great fluency, but with wonder- 
ful earnestness and simplicity. Whatever his 
weaknesses, whatever errors were possible to 
him, it was a willing and a candid service which 
he offered on this night ; and there was neither 
embarrassment nor any baser element in the 
composure which followed upon the close of his 
petition. 

This ended, the ‘‘visiting brother,” a city 
preacher of high reputation, gave out a second 
hymn, and, while it was being sung, stepped a 
little forward. He was a stout, florid man, 
with a kindly, beaming face, a broad, high fore- 
head, and an alert and ready eye. He was much 
better dressed than the pastor of the church, 
— who, a tall, well-formed, intelligent-looking 
man, sat back on the sofa looking a trifle pale 
and anxious, and who wore a rather shabby 
black coat. The preacher, looking prosperous, 
energetic, and happy, with a certain business- 
like air withal, ran his eye over his congrega- 
tion during the singing ; and when it ended 
read the last few verses of the first chapter of 


174 


THE GEORGIANS. 


Samuel, and closing the Bible began to speak 
in an easy conversational tone : — 

“ My brethren, I have not come here to 
preach you a sermon. I have just had a revival 
in my own church, extending through several 
weeks ; and, when I heard from Brother Beech 
that there appeared to be indications of a gra- 
cious season here, I felt inclined to come and 
help him along. I preached to you this morn- 
ing, and addressed the Sunday-school children 
this evening. To-night I had hoped to have 
the pleasure of hearing your good pastor preach, 
but his throat is too sore for him to do so. I 
call, therefore, on the members of this church 
to stand by him and by me. Don’t be afraid to 
speak, brethren : it may be a providential inter- 
position that lays this burden upon you ; it may 
be that your testimony is more needed in this 
emergency than any thing I could say. 

I will only outline to you a theme for this 
evening’s meditations. You can speak on any 
subject that you like : I want brief, five-min- 
utes talks, straight to the point ; but I suggest 
that we speak on the subject of Christian 
mothers.” 


SUNDAY: AND A SERMON 1 75 

He went on to say, that of the forty-three 
persons recently added to his own church, 
thirty-nine had religious, prayerful mothers ; 
spoke of his own mother’s influence over him 
with sincere feeling, and added a well-meant if 
florid tribute to the name of mother. The dis- 
course was perfectly adapted to move most of 
his hearers ; and in concluding he said, — 

I set before you the motherhood of Hannah 
to consider. How many of you have been 
dedicated to the Lord, even from the hour of 
birth ! How many of you have felt;, when the 
earth closed over a beloved and toil-worn frame, 
that you had lost your best earthly friend } 
How many have promised, in ears now deaf in 
the dust of death, that you would meet mother 
in heaven 1 Are you trying to keep that prom- 
ise 1 Will you not begin again to try to-night 1 

‘‘ Is there a mother here who has ever held a 
babe on her breast, and not prayed for it 1 Will 
any rise Not one. Is there a man, woman, 
or child here to-night who believes that his 
mother has not prayed for him } Will any rise } 
Again, not one. 

“ Are there any here who, for the encourage- 


1/6 


THE GEORGIANS. 


ment of others, will rise and tell us briefly of 
what a mother’s influence and prayers have 
done for him ? ” 

The preacher sat down, and covered his eyes 
with his hand, leaving the responsibility of con- 
tinuing the meeting with the people. Of course 
he had left some of his more critical hearers in 
a state of revolt ; but the good influence which 
fortunately does not wait only upon logical, 
fair, and lofty pleadings, moved upon the hearts 
of the people. After a short pause a man in 
the back part of the house got up, and uttered 
a halting, blundering but pathetic little tribute 
to the memory of a mother who had recently 
died with all the triumph of faith. As he de- 
scribed her death-bed with simple eloquence, 
various devout murmurs rose here and there 
throughout the church ; and when he sat down 
the preacher began to sing, — 

“ Oh ! think of the friends over there, 

Who before us the journey have trod ; ” 

and first a woman’s voice joined in with his, and 
then many more, till the whole congregation 
had sung the first stanza. 


SUNDAY: AND A SERMON 1/7 

“ Will another speak ? ” asked the preacher 
as the chorus ended. A woman rose, after a 
considerable pause, and began to talk, but burst 
into tears, and sank down again, crying, — 

Pray for my son ! He’s far away : I don’t 
know where he is.” 

“Yes, we will pray for him, sister; take 
courage,” the preacher said gently. “ We have 
testimony to encourage you. Is there not some 
one who can rise and tell this mourning mother 
of an answer to prayers like hers, however long 
delayed } ” 

The ice was broken. Two or three rose in 
quick succession. There was an earnestness in 
the emotional, sometimes ungrammatical sen- 
tences, that made all that was said appeal to the 
better sentiments and impulses of the hearers. 
After one of the speakers sat down, a solitary 
woman’s voice, sweet and clear, began to sing 
with trerhulous feeling, — 

“There were ninety and nine that safely lay 
In the shelter of the fold; 

But one was out on the hills astray. 

Far off in the dark and cold.” 

There was a sob from one of the congrega- 


178 


THE GEORGIANS. 


tion ; and then other voices, some pathetic with 
weeping, took up the song, — 

“ Lord, thou hast here thy ninety and nine : 

Are they not enough for thee ? 

But the Shepherd answered, ’Tis of mine 
Has wandered away from me : 

And, although the road be rough and steep, 

I go to the desert to find my sheep.” 

At the close of this hymn the preacher rose. 

The Spirit is moving on the hearts of some 
of you mightily,” he said. “ There are some of 
you who long to confess, in the sight of Heaven 
and of this people, that you have sinned, and 
desire forgiveness and a better life. Let all 
those who desire to offer these prayers come to 
the front benches, and kneel down there.” 

Dead silence ensued: then two young girls 
went hastily forward, and knelt down ; a mo- 
ment later, a young man from the very back 
bench came forth, with downcast eyes and a 
determined look ; half way up the aisle, a slen- 
der boy, not yet far in his teens, joined him ; 
and near the front, a young married man and 
his wife followed ' them, kneeling down also. 


SUNDAY: AND A SERMON 1 79 

There was then a quiet, broken only by sobs, 
and then the preacher spoke persuasively : — 

“ There are some of you who are waiting be- 
cause you are under the bondage of some evil 
habit. Don’t you know you can’t break off 
without help 1 Haven’t you tried all in vain ? 
Come and ask your Father for a new heart. 
With a new heart you won’t have the old sin- 
ful lusts and appetites : you will hate the sin 
you have clung to. Come, and let the prayers 
and . sympathies of these Christian people 
strengthen you. That’s right, brother ! ” as 
an old, debauched, drunken-looking man came 
feebly towards the front. “Come on, sister, 
brother : let us pray for you to overcome the 
sin that so besets you ! ” A florid, stout young 
fellow of nineteen or twenty, and a thin, trem- 
bling woman, her face quite concealed by a long 
sun-bonnet, now advanced. 

“You whom pride is keeping back,” contin- 
ued the exhorter reproachfully, “you who do 
not come because you fear men more than their 
Maker, come along right now ! My poor chil- 
dren ! You know your hearts arc weak and 
sinful ; you want to be nobler and better ; you 


1^0 THE GEORGIANS. 

want to come: take heart, and come! You 
know there is none so poor as he who wants, 
and dare not ask, relief. You are coming. I 
am waiting. Heaven is waiting. Yes, here you 
come. Kneel down and pray, my daughters.” 

Three or four young girls stole timidly from 
their places, and came forward. One of them 
was the pretty girl from the melodeon ; one of 
them was the youngest Pickens girl in all her 
jewelled bravery. 

.The preacher continued to address his shafts 
of exhortation to every class of hearers, and 
the hand of conscience guided them home. 
This public confession of their penitence was 
the sorest of trials for many of them ; but it was 
the best-appointed way, in their sincere belief. 

Mme. Orlanoff sat with her body bent slightly 
forward, her hands clasped, and her face, paler 
than usual, turned from one to another as they 
took the decisive step. The manifestation of 
deep emotion must affect the witnesses in some 
way — either with sympathy, terror, or aversion. 
All of these feelings were curiously blent in 
Mme. Orlanoff ; but sympathy won the day, for 
the people moved, albeit the preacher did not 


SUNDAY: AND A SERMON l8l 

please, her. She bowed in the closing prayer 
which was offered by an old man in a fervent, 
almost impassioned strain ; and when he prayed 
for peace and light for all these troubled souls, 
her lips joined in the breathed “Amen” that 
went through the congregation. As all rose 
from their knees, however, a loud unearthly 
shriek was heard, so piercing, so shrill, that in- 
voluntarily she started, and seized her escort’s 
arm. Mark frowned, though not at her touch ; 
then the shriek broke into cries of “ Glory ! 
Glory ! Glory ! ” and a young country-girl, with 
a beaming face wet with tears, commenced 
shaking hands violently with the person next 
her. The pastor, Mr Beech, turned from an- 
other girl whose quiet, happy face told its own 
story, and went over to this other convert, nod- 
ding to the choir to sing, as he went ; and the 
hymn of Wesley, — 

“Jesus, lover of my soul,” — 

rose on the air with full and earnest force, sub- 
duing the sobs and cries that soon ceased utterly. 

Mme. Orlanoff, quitting her hold of Lau- 
rens’s arm, looked questioningly at him : he 


i 82 


THE GEORGIANS. 


smiled re-assiiringly, and joined in the hymn 
without speaking. The benediction was then 
pronounced, and he.turned to lead the way out 
of church. 

Before they reached the door, however, they 
were overtaken by this same young woman, 
who stretched out her hand to Laurens. 

“ Oh, Mr. Laurens, I’m so happy ! My sins 
are all forgiven ! Oh, do shake hands with me ! 
I thought to myself, I can’t see my Sunday- 
school superintendent go out without telling 
him. Oh, it’s like heaven now ! ” 

There, Miss Mary, don’t cry out,” Laurens 
said, taking her hand kindly. “Go home and 
say your prayers quietly, and don’t startle your 
poor sick mother when you go into the house. 
The first mark of a Christian you must learn 
to wear, will be to think more about others. 
Keep your own joy quiet, that others may be 
happy in their silent way.” 

“ But I feel like I must shout ! ” the poor girl 
said, withdrawing her hand. “ Ma did, I know, 
when she was a girl, and got religion. I can’t 
keep still all over, like you do, when I think 
how I’m just converted ! ” 


SUNDAY: AND A SERMON 1 83 

'‘Well, if you’re sure you must shout, do it,” 
Laurens said gravely. “ But I will talk to you 
next Sunday, when you have had time to think 
more. Be sure that God will help you if you’ll 
go straight on trying to feel right and do right. 
Good-night.” 

He turned to Mme. Orlanoff, and saw her 
smile gently on the excited girl, who had caught 
her hand in passing. Then she gave her hand 
to him, and was led to her carriage. 

“ This young girl who cried out,” he said to 
her, as they drove away, “belongs to a class 
which it is difficult for me to understand. Her 
people are good, honest folk ; and she herself 
is a genuine child of nature. She has never 
learned to restrain herself, and, in fact, would 
think it was ‘resisting the Spirit’ if she did not 
cry aloud when she felt that impulsive happi- 
ness. I fear she shocked you.” 

“ Only at first. Afterwards I thought I un- 
derstood. Mr. Laurens, the people in that 
church are like members of one great family. 
In fact, they know each other’s troubles and 
each other’s aspirations better than members of 
some families know one another’s. What frank- 


184 


■ THE GEORGIANS. 


ness ! What brotherly feeling ! I am sure that 
church does bless a great many souls that 
could not be reached by another.” 

“ You are not sorry you came, then } ” 

‘‘ No, I am glad. I am glad to know that 
there is this kind of life about me. One reared 
among such people is fortunate. If they only 
knew how much safer — how much happier” — 
She paused. After a moment Laurens said,. — 
“And among the Methodists, then, could you 
feel at home .^” 

“ If I had been brought up among them : if 
my mother had been one. Oh, if I could ever 
talk of my mother it would be to-night ! If you 
had only known her,, you would understand how 
the very memory of her could have stayed me 
in sore temptation. She was so beautiful, so 
unworldly, so good and pure : ah ! if she had 
lived I should never have been married as I 
was.” 

Laurens turned towards her, thrilled with 
sudden emotion. At last, at last, was she about 
to tell him of herself.? But when she next 
spoke, it was more calmly. 

“ I do not know, Mr. Laurens, how much you 


SUJVDAY: AND A SEDMON 1 85 

may know about me. I do not know what my 
uncle may have confided to you as his executor. 
It may have been all or nothing of what he 
knew ; but he was well aware that I did not 
wish to be spoken of to his friends.” 

“He told me nothing, madam, except that 
you were his niece, his sister’s daughter : he 
said that you were alone in the world, and left 
me your name and address.” 

She spoke again, after a moment’s silence. 

“But you will naturally think me bound to 
explain to you something of my past, when I 
say that, although I had at first no idea of giving 
any account of myself to society, or opening my 
doors to it, I now wish very much not to lose 
your sister when Bride is gone. I should like 
to have her with me a great deal : I should like 
to call you and her my friends.” 

“We are your friends,” Laurens said, in a 
voice that trembled slightly in spite of him. 
“ We accept you as you are. If it is unpleas- 
ant to you, do not ever allude to your past.” 

“It must seem strange — a woman quite 
alone, no one attached to her, no fact stated 
save that she is ' Madame,’ and is now alone ” — 


THE GEORGIANS. 


1 86 

“Not at all strange,” Laurens said sturdily. 
“ You are accepted here because you are the 
niece of your uncle, and because — your face is 
enough. As for me and mine, believe that we 
expect nothing, ask nothing. We have no curi- 
osity about any thing you care to forget.” 

She put out her hand towards him impul- 
sively : he took it, and gravely, unhesitatingly, 
raised it to his lips. 

“I shall tell you all about it soon,” Mme. 
Orlanoff said, in a voice slightly agitated, with- 
drawing her hand. 

They spoke no more. Both sat motionless, 
thrilled with unwonted feeling. He dared not 
utter the words that repeated themselves in his 
heart. For her, she was telling herself that it 
was singular how much one could be attracted 
to a man with whom marriage would be impos- 
sible ; it was manifest that no woman of experi- 
ence and good sense would love or marry a 
man, however good and admirable, who was not 
of suitable worldly position, habits, tastes ; it 
was most certain that oneness of aims and am- 
bitions was more necessary to settled happiness 
than all the charms of manner or of person : 


SUJVDAY: AND A SERMON. 1 8 / 

for her, she had loved once, and could never 
love again, nor was it possible that she could 
marry ; but for himself, this man had all the 
moral delicacy, purity, strength, that was to a 
woman adorable. 

When they reached the house, Blount came 
down the front steps to assist her in alighting. 

“ I came out to-night, Mme. Orlanoff, to know 
if you were coming to the ball this week. It 
will be on my last night here,” he said. 

I shall probably do duty ^s a chaperone on 
that occasion,” she answered indifferently. 



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She knows the pulse is beating quickly yet. 

She knows the dream is sweet and subtle still. 
That struggling from the cloud of past regret. 
Ready for conflict, live hope, and joy, and will: 
So soon, so soon, to vail the eager eyes. 

To dull the throbbing ear to blame or praise. 

So soon to cru,sh re-wakening sympathies. 

And teach them she goes softly all her daysT 






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A HAI^SI/ FAE£WELL. 


19 


CHAPTER IX. 

A HARSH FAREWELL. 

T AURENS had promised Kate, who was to 
— ' dress at The Pines for the garrison ball, to 
come over at eight, and see how he liked her in 
party costume. Willing to please his young 
sister, and still more anxious to see Mme. Or- 
lanoff also, Laurens, who was not going to the 
dance, arrived a few minutes before the car- 
riages came ; and Kate ran down to meet him, 
looking very lovely. The pretty white dress 
she had had made for a school commencement, 
with the long white gloves and dainty slippers 
which she had worn only once in her life, were 
all Kate’s bravery : but Mme. Orlanoff’s fairy 
fingers had touched the toilette ; and the fine 
lace at the throat, .the ribbons at the belt, the 
exquisite fan, and the cobweb of a silken shawl, 
with its creamy fringes, were^her additions- to 


192 


THE GEORGIANS. 


Kate’s dress. His sister’s beauty surprised 
Laurens thoroughly, as she entered the room, 
her cheeks flushed with excitement, her clear 
hazel eyes beaming with pleasure. Mark took 
up a fold of the shawl, as she flung it aside in 
order the better to display her costume. 

“All these dainty things give you such 
delight, little Kate, and suit you so well,” he 
said, looking her over, “that I wish I could give 
you your lap full of such gauds. You ought 
to be rich, child : you would be a splendid 
beauty.” 

“Why, Mark!” Kate exclaimed, blushing 
with surprise and delight, “do you think that of 
me I think my clothes do look nice,” whirl- 
ing around in a very airy fashion for serious 
Kate, and then walking soberly up to him ; 
“ but I — Mark, I should like to kiss you for 
saying that I could be a beauty.” 

Mark smiled, and, putting his arm around his 
sister, kissed her cheek and her lips. 

The young girl’s last speech, and this little 
tableau, were heard and seen by Jack Stevens 
and Capt. Ferguson, who had arrived mean- 
while. They made a discreet bustle in the 


A HARSH FAREWELL. 


193 


hall, however, and, on entering the room, found 
Kate looking over some music, and Laurens 
seated in an armchair at some distance. Blount 
followed the first two gentlemen almost imme- 
diately ; and in a few moments Bride came down 
dressed all in pale blue silk, with a coquettish 
little knot of ribbon in her hair, and Mrs. 
Davidge, attired in her customary suit of sol- 
emn ” black silk, looked prepared to do or suffer 
any thing for the sake of her daughter's pleas- 
ure. 

^‘Madame la comtesse.?" Blount inquired. 

Oh, I’m so sorry! but Fdlise has given up 
the whole thing,” Bride said, looking up from 
the glove which her beloved was buttoning. 
“A poor woman in the neighborhood, whom 
Fdlise has been visiting lately, was taken very 
ill to-night with all the perversity of old people ; 
and Miss Tiny, or whatever her daughter is 
called, sent for Felise straightway. So she’s 
gone.” 

‘‘But she will return.?” he asked, turning to 
Mrs. Davidge as to one in authority. 

“ No. She said when she left, that, if she did 
not return before seven, we must conclude that 


194 


THE GEORGIANS. 


she would remain there all night. It seems 
that the poor soul has taken a great fancy to 
her; and Felicia is one of those women — too 
kind-hearted, who will deny herself any thing 
for another’s sake.” 

‘‘And there is now no chance that she will 
come back } ” 

“ None, I think. She could not be persuaded 
that it would be of any consequence if she 
remained, since I was well enough to act as 
chaperone. Yet she did mean to go, I am 
certain : her dress was all ready. I am very 
sorry, but we have to spare her to-night.” 

There was nothing to do, it appeared, but to 
make the best of the general disappointment. 
The party went out to the carriages ; and the 
three ladies and Capt. Ferguson entered the 
first, while Jack followed Blount, who could not 
conceal his chagrin, into the second, and Lau- 
rens walked away to the side • gate of the 
grounds to go home by the shortest route. 

As the carriages reached the front gate, and 
the coachman of the first descended to open it, 
Blount alighted, and walked up to the side of 
the first. 


A HARSH FAREWELL. 1 95 

*^Mrs. Davidge, where does this person re- 
side, — this sick woman ? ” he asked. 

“ In a little cottage a quarter of a mile back, 
at the foot of the hill.” 

“ I think I will drive there, and see if Mme. 
Orlanoff can’t leave her patient; and if she 
will. I’ll follow fast and overtake you. It’s my 
last night here,” he added in a troubled voice. 
‘‘ The name of the people is ” — 

“Hyman. And you can’t miss the house. 
But it is so unlikely ” — 

“ At least I can say good-by to . her,” Blount 
insisted. The others saw that the case was 
desperate, and forbore to argue it further. 
Jack descended from Blount’s carriage cheer- 
fully, and climbed up to the box of the other 
beside the coachman. 

“ I’m not going to lose the chance of the first 
dance with Miss Kate,” he said, leaning back 
to address the party in the open carriage. 
“ Nice weather up here anyhow. ‘This is the 
sort of a night I’m partial to,’ as the jail-bird 
said when he skipped on a stormy evening.” 

While these rolled away towards town, then, 
Blount alone was being rapidly carried in the 


196 THE GEORGIANS. 

direction of the house in the hollow. A feeble 
light showed from beneath the door as he 
arrived before the dwelling, and glimmered 
through a small window shaded by a calico 
curtain. He got out close to the rickety, 
irregular palings, and felt about for the gate. 
The noise of wheels had attracted attention 
within. The door was opened ; and a thin little 
woman, shading a flickeiing candle with her 
hand, appeared. 

“Who’s that.? You, doctor.?” she asked. 

“No,” Blount answered rather gruffly, find- 
ing the latch, and lifting it. 

“Who are you.? Speak out, or I’ll loose the 
dog,” the woman ejaculated, setting down the 
candle, and darting to a tree by the door. “ He 
don’t allow no niggers on these premises after 
dark ! ” 

A chain rattled as she spoke ; and the dog 
shook himself and rose, growling. 

“ Is this Mrs. Hyman’s .? ” Blount inquired, 
keeping the gate between himself and Miss 
Palestine. 

“Anybody knows ’tis, but a tramp!” Miss 
Tiny retorted, with the virulence born of fright. 


A HARSH FAREWELL. 


197 


Is Mme. Orlanoff still here ? ” 

“ Oh ! are you one o’ her friends ? ” Miss 
Palestine answered, more amiably, but still 
standing under the tree. *‘No, she ain’t here: 
she’s gone home. Ma got easier, and she sorter 
thought she would go. I hope you ain’t waked 
the old lady up : she’d ain’t had a mite o’ sleep 
these two days.” 

“How long has the lady been gone Blount 
asked, having let the latch fall into its place. 

“ ’Bout ten minutes, maybe not so long,” was 
the answer. “ I reckon if you’re goin’ I’ll let 
the dog loose now. I had to keep him chained 
up while her nigger was waitin’ with the car- 
riage. Good-night to you.” 

Blount turned away, directed the driver to 
return to The Pines, and set out much mystified 
by Mme. Orlanoff’s invisibility. 

In fact, Mme. Orlanoff had been driving 
homeward when, by the lamps of the other 
carriages, she saw the party from The Pines 
leaving the gate. She knew that if they met 
they would all insist upon waiting for her to 
make ready and join them, and she did not care 
enough for the prospective diversion to dress 


198 THE GEORGIANS. 

for it at this hour. She therefore directed her 
driver, Seneca, jun., to turn aside at a lane; 
and, driving up to the side-gate, she descended 
from the carriage just as Laurens emerged 
from the grounds, while young Seneca drove 
on around to the stables. 

Madame ! ” 

''Mr. Laurens !” 

"Your party has gone on.” 

"I have just seen them go, and have slipped 
away from them. I do not care to go to a ball 
to-night,” Mme. Orlanoff said, with a frank 
smile. 

Laurens held open the gate, and followed her 
as she passed through it. The trees stood tall 
and dark about them ; the grass grew, rank and 
untrimmed, on each side of the narrow path 
into which they stepped. The moonlight came 
through the dense foliage faintly, and the wind 
breathed through it softly. 

" Will you take my arm 1 ” he asked, his 
heart beginning to throb faster. 

"I have caught my dress on something, — a 
brier,” — she answered, bending to disengage 
herself. 


A HARSH FAREWELL. * 1 99 

He knelt, and in his efforts to assist her their 
hands met once and again. 

‘‘There, I am free,” she said, with a little 
laugh, standing up. He rose also ; and she took 
his arm, feeling it tremble as she did so. For 
Laurens, speech was impossible for the mo- 
ment, unless it should be the cry, “ I love you ! 
I love you ! ” They moved on in silence. 
Mme. Orlanoff was awakening to the fact that 
she had aroused the heart which beat so heavily 
against her ariii. The fact that this solitary 
heart, with all its weight of unused feeling, 
should be so stirred, seemed to her terrible. 
She divined the ' excitement, the doubt, the 
trouble, in every labored pulse ; and with all 
her self-possession she felt pity and fear. Any 
other man would have been so much easier to 
repel ; but this one she believed to be so much 
better than any other she had known, so little 
deserving of a wound, so justly entitled to win, 
that it was inexpressibly painful to her to per- 
ceive his agitation. She remembered Blount’s 
hint as to his feeling ; and a hundred corrobora- 
tive incidents rushed to her mind during their 
brief walk, increasing her dismay. 


200 


THE GEORGIANS. 


They came out into the open moonlight 
presently, within sight of the house, and then 
passed under the shade of the magnolia. 

“ Can I persuade you to sit here a while } the 
night is so beautiful,” Laurens said, pausing at 
the bench on which he had lain that day, some 
weeks ago, when Blount and the others first 
visited The Pines. 

It is beautiful, but I do not care to remain 
in the out-door air,” she said quietly. 

He submitted ; and they passed on, and as- 
cended the front steps. The door was shut ; 
but with a carelessness quite usual in that part 
of the country, the long front windows were 
wide open. Mme. Orlanoff entered the lighted 
room, and sat down in the dark-green velvet 
chair in which she had been seated when 
Laurens first saw her. 

“May I stay.?” he asked doubtfully, standing 
near the window. 

“For ten minutes,” she answered, looking 
towards him with a smile, as she removed the 
broad straw hat which covered her beautiful 
head, smooth and neat as a dove’s, with close 
dusky hair, — “for ten minutes ; and then I am 


A HAT^SI/ FAREWELL. 


201 


going to say good-night to you, and take a long 
night’s rest. I have been on my feet now for 
several hours, and I feel a little tired to-night.” 

^‘Then I will go at once,” he said, moving 
slowly towards her. She held out the white 
hand she gave so seldom to any other man in 
greeting or farewell, when, just as he touched 
it, he heard a sound that made him pause : he 
turned, hesitated, and Mme. Orlanoff caught his 
questioning look. 

“What is it .?” she asked, rising and moving 
towards the window. He followed her, and both 
heard wheels approaching. 

“Can it be that they are all coming back.?” 
she asked, stepping out on the piazza. A car- 
riage was certainly coming up the drive. She 
moved hastily forward, and stumbled against a 
footstool which had been left on the porch. 
Laurens sprang to her side, and caught her. 
For one instant she was supported by his arms, 
which did not clasp or draw her nearer, but sim- 
*^ply steadied her for a moment, and released her 
before either of them quite knew what had hap- 
pened. The solitary occupant of the carriage, 
peering out at that instant, caught only a glimpse 


202 


. THE GEORGIANS. 


of that visionary embrace, but it was enough to 
make a great difference in him. A moment 
later Blount got out of the carriage, and came 
up the steps, hat in hand, but without any of 
his wonted air of devotion. 

‘‘ Is this really you, Mr. Blount } ” the count- 
ess asked, advancing to meet him. 

‘‘Good-evening, Madame,” he said, bowing, 
and pausing where he stood. “ I was commis- 
sioned ” (O Blount !) “ to return and see if you 
had not by chance come home, so that you might 
still join your party. I came the more willingly 
for the sake of an opportunity to say adieu, at 
least, as I leave for the North to-morrow. • I 
may not expect the honor of escorting you to 
the ball perhaps ” 

There was some intolerable effort at sarcasm 
in his manner, which stung Mme. Orlanoff. 

“We will say adieu, sir,” she said briefly, 
bowing. 

“ As I expect to go abroad towards the last 
of June, perhaps I may Soon have the pleasure* 
of meeting some of your friends and relatives,” 
he said, still with that cold, undeferential air. 
“ Can I bear any messages from you, Madame ? 


A HAIiSH FAREWELL. 203 

There are certainly many who will be glad to 
hear the latest news of you.” 

I am doubtless too completely forgotten in 
Paris to be of interest to any one,” she an- 
swered, as coldly as he. “Adieu ; bon voyage, 
monsieur ! ” 

She bowed slightly, and stepped backward, 
pride and dignity visible in the very bend of 
her graceful neck. 

“Allow me — I beg pardon — one moment ! ” 
Blount exclaimed, with sudden scorn of his own 
suspicions. As he advanced, Laurens, who 
had stood near, silently chafing, all this time, 
looked for one moment at him, and then at 
Mme. Orlanoff, and walked away to the farther 
end of the piazza, where he paused, standing 
with folded arms and averted face near the last 
of the great wooden columns. 

“ I came to ask you to deny the truth of re- 
ports I have heard lately from Paris,” Blount 
said to her impetuously. “I came, ready to 
trust you above all the world, — you, whom a 
circle of moths like myself had ever found an 
unapproachable . chaste flame, beautiful a,t a 
distance, terrible when approached too near.” 


204 


THE GEORGIANS. 


She smiled, with a faint, fine smile that 
mocked’ his fluent metaphor ; and he reddened, 
but went on, this time more abruptly, — 

“ I came to ask you, if this is untrue, if it is 
possible for you to marry, to accept me, and let 
me take you back to your old life. You shall 
live where you will. I am rich ; I have loved 
you for years ; I can ” — 

“Your pardon! And the news from Paris, 
Mr. Blount .? ” 

He took a letter from his breast-pocket hast- 
ily, opening it with trembling fingers, and drew 
near the window from which the light streamed. 

“Take it; read it; I cannot say it to your 
face,” he said, in a hoarse half-whisper, putting 
the letter into her hands, and pointing out a 
paragraph in it. Her eyes fell on the lines ; 
her lip trembled, her face paled ; she qould not 
conceal her agitation, and she did not attempt 
to read more than three lines before crushing 
the paper in her hands. 

“You will do me the justice to say that I 
have not encouraged any feeling of yours for 
me } ” she said slowly. “ I think you will hold 
me guiltless of any wish to pain you or any 


A HARSH FAREWELL. 20 $ 

one. I shall never marry, and we shall prob- 
ably meet no more. Farewell.” 

She turned, and would have swept by him ; 
but he detained her, though not with a touch. 

“ It is not true, that letter } ” he half-asked, 
half-asserted. 

*‘You will not insult me I have never 
willingly injured a living creature.” 

“Mme. Orlanoff, stay! Could you — can I 
— it will not offend you, surely, to have me live 
near you — -to love you — to serve you — to 
wait ” — 

^‘No man shall offer love to me, monsieur. 
But I shall pardon you — a • thousand miles 
away. Adieli — come here no more I ” 

She passed into the parlor, and he dared not 
follow. A moment he lingered, then turned, 
threw his hat upon his head, descended the 
steps, and was driven away. Laurens, motion- 
less, watched the carriage out of _sight ; then 
he turned, and drew near to the window. Mme. 
Orlanoff was standing by the end of the piano, 
reading a page of a letter. She looked up as 
he came in, with despairing eyes set in so white 
a face that his heart was filled with some name- 


206 


THE GEORGIANS. 


less dread. His face betrayed his alarm, and 
she held out her hand : he was by her side in 
an instant. 

What is it } What has hurt you "I ” he 
cried. 

“It is nothing — no, it is something I cannot 
tell you now,” she said with agitation. “ I shall 
tell you some day. I don’t know what to do. 
I may have to go away — to go back. Heaven 
help me ! ” dropping her voice. 

“ Go away, and go back ? Can I do nothing 
for you ? Don’t say you will leave us ! ” he 
said, almost overwhelmed, but still sufficiently 
strong to know that he must not say “leave 
me.” 

“I shall tell you some day soon.,” she an- 
swered more quietly. “Now I must say good- 
night. I am weary : come again, when I am 
myself. And now — good-night, my friend.” 

There was no resisting the gentle, final dis- 
missal. Laurens bowed over her hand, and 
went away into the still moonlight and through 
the dark trees, towards home. 


“ A little while a little love 

May yet be ours, who have not said 
The word it makes our eyes afraid 
To know that each is thinking ofT 


D. G. Rossetti. 


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CONFESSION. 


209 


CHAPTER X. 

I CONFESSION. 

' I "'HE next morning Mme. Orlanoff excused 
herself from leaving her room, on the plea 
of a headache, and requested that no one 
should come to her; and Kate went home in 
the afternoon without seeing her. When the 
young girl came back the next morning, and 
asked for her friend, Bride told her that Felicia 
was still invisible, and would see nobody ; but 
Kate ventured up-stairs, and rapped on Mme. 
Orlanoff’s door. 

It is I — Kate,” she said, after knocking. 
** I am going away to-night : may I bid you 
good-by } ” 

Mme. Orlanoff opened the door, and held out 
her arms to the girl, pressing her to her bosom 
as if glad to clasp a living creature there again. 
Whatever ghosts had been her company during 


210 


THE GEORGIANS. 


those last six and thirty hours, whatever shapes 
of the past had risen from their graves, they 
had left her looking strangely white and wan ; 
and there was a stern, tense look about the lips, 
even after her first warm kiss to Kate. 

“You are not well,” the young girl said, 
looking into the pale, altered face. 

“ I am better,” Mme. Orlanoff answered with 
decision. “ Come, tell me the trouble, then, 
little one you are going — whither 1 ” 

“ Oh ! it seems that I must go. I don’t want 
to do so at all : but my grandfather Laurens is 
very ill, and he has written for Mark and me to 
come to him ; and although we have never been 
friends with him, and Mark would not even let 
him educate me, it seems mean to refuse an old 
man who is dying. He says that we are the 
children of his only son, and Mark is the only 
one bearing his name ; and the way he writes 
would move any one.” 

“ Has he no one with him } ” 

“ His daughter, a widow, lives with him. It 
was she who wrote for him ; and she added a 
very kind postscript. I think I should like to 
know her — my aunt Belle. I have never seen 


CONFESSION-. 


211 


her. Don’t you think it seems right for us to 
go?" 

“ There appears to be no other right course. 
Did you hesitate ? ” 

Mark did. I’m afraid that he can’t forgive 
easily. But I have persuaded him.” 

You go to-night, then ?” 

“And I don’t know when we shall come 
back.” 

Mme. Orlanoff heard the whole story of the 
trouble between Kate’s father and grandfather ; 
was kind, sympathetic, gentle, as usual : but she 
did not go down-stairs to bid Laurens good-by 
when he came over in the afternoon. She had 
been alone, writing, ever since Kate had left 
her; and she sent down a letter addressed to 
Kate when Laurens came, with word that he 
was to deliver it when they had arrived at their 
grandfather’s, and had leisure to read it. Laur- 
ens took it from Bride, who delivered a third of 
the message ; put it in his pocket ; went home 
moody and disappointed because Felicia had 
not come down ; and forgot all about this same 
letter for many a day, or thought of it only 
when he had no opportunity to turn it over to 


212 


THE GEORGIANS. 


Kate. He little guessed the story in that let- 
ter, full of bitterness and sadness; nor could 
divine that at the end of it three little lines 
ran thus : — 

^‘You may tell your brother all this, if you 
like; in fact, I wish that he should read this 
letter.” 

It was the early morning of a mid-June day, 
nearly three weeks later, when Mme. Orlanoff, 
after a night of vigil, came out of Miss Pales- 
tine’s door, and walked slowly towards home. 
Her graceful figure looked even slighter than 
usual, in a simple black dress ; she had a black 
lace scarf thrown over her head, and a knot of 
crushed and withered pink roses, that Bride had 
pinned on the bosom of her dress the day be- 
fore when she left home, rested there still. She 
was walking in the light of the sunrise, and the 
day was going to be warm ; but she felt chill 
and weary. Death had come into the home of 
poverty, and left it rnore dark and bare than 
before. Mme. Orlanoff had assisted in per- 
forming the last services to the deserted body. 
The cold touch of the dead hands which she 


CONFESSION 


213 


had folded seemed to linger within her own. 
She had done these works' of charity with the 
simplicity and sincerity of sympathy. The kind 
heart of Felicia Orlanoff knew no difference 
between rich and poor, high and low, in the 
presence of sorrow and in the solemn visitation 
of the last Enemy. Poor Miss Palestine never 
forgot the short, fervent prayer Mme. Orlanoff 
uttered, kneeling by the dying bed, the world 
and self forgotten in the divine inspiration that 
had moved her. 

It was not the first time that the countess 
had watched by the sick-beds of the poor. In 
an unhappy wifehood she had found relief in 
lavishly giving of the wealth that surrounded 
her, and had tried to forget her own in the 
troubles of others. She had been without other 
consolation : for she had found no pleasure in 
dissipation and no attraction in any man of her 
husband’s monde ; so pure had she beeir, so un- 
approachable, as scarce to be conscious of her 
own virtue or the failings of others. Her life 
had passed unscathed the scrutinizing review of 
curious and of envious eyes ; and her own con- 
science had never risen in rebuke against her 


214 


THE GEORGIANS. 


through the years spent in the midst of the 
world’s recognized dangers. But how was it 
with her now, here in this quiet place } 

Even as she was walking home from the 
house where she had prayed for, and ministered 
to, the dying and the dead, the atmosphere of 
her mind was disturbed by warm currents of 
thought displacing the chill and sorrowful re- 
membrances of the night. She had had two 
brief notes from Kate since her departure ; and 
the last announced the death of her grandfather, 
and said that she and Mark would soon be at 
home again. Her fancy refused to dwell upon 
the sufferings that were ended, the passing of 
these aged people : it was the fact that Kate 
and Laurens would soon return, that filled her 
now. She had missed these two — nay, she 
had missed hiniy incalculably. She had daily 
wished to hear his deep, full voice, to see his 
face. Not that it was so handsome a face, per- 
haps ; but it was so strong, so good, so earnest. 
She was troublously conscious of wishing with 
a deep intensity that it had pleased Heaven to 
give her ardent and trustful youth into the 
hands of a man so pure, so trustworthy, so full 


CONFESSION. 


215 


of unconscious power, as this man seemed to 
be. Oh that instead of a mere pretender at 
honor, a fop, a rouiy she had known, she had 
married, such a man as this ! 

She struggled but feebly against these 
thoughts and desires. They had grown strong- 
er during these weeks of absence, as she had 
been more unguarded. Without having said 
to herself, I love him,” — she would still have 
shrunk from that in deep distress, — she had 
said, might have loved him above all the 
world.” She had known that these dreams of 
what might have been, this vain repining at 
what had really been, was a sin of the heart ; 
but a shadow was over that once pure and 
proud soul, and she blindly walked amid pit- 
falls. A sin of the imagination had grown 
sweet to her whose heart had once been inno- 
cent; and she, whose firm integrity had been 
unshaken by all the allurements incident to a 
fashionable career in a great and wicked city, 
now felt herself weakly yielding to the fascina- 
tion of an idle dream, — a dream of one whom 
she wished never to love, yet whose love would 
be sweet, because of the goodness and purity 


2I6 


THE GEORGIANS. 


which she believed would chasten it and make 
it safe for her. First love is uncalculating, un- 
selfish : the love which comes to the more 
sophisticated nature is less spontaneous, less 
overflowing : it may subtly increase until it is 
resistless, and will bestow itself recklessly ; 
but it begins selfishly, and cries only, “ Give ! 
give ! ” Mme. Orlanoff had not so read her 
own heart as to know that she desired this 
great, pure love ; but she had thought of the 
joy of receixung it had it not come too late. 

And now, as she gained the top of the hill, 
and saw him suddenly standing before her, — 
Laurens himself, returned already and abroad 
alone at this early hour, — her heart stood still ; 
and she wondered how it was with him, and 
how he regarded her now that he knew of her 
past. Her eyes shone softly' in the dark circles 
cast about them by her recent fatigue, as she 
caught the quiet smile on his serious face. A 
blush rose to her cheek as his hand met hers in 
a clasp stronger than before. Never, it seemed 
to him, had she looked so lovely as now, when 
the morning sun searched her flawless face, and 
found no imperfection there ; and she came to 


CONFESSION-. 


217 


him from nights of vigil, fairer than ever for 
her darkened eyes, beautiful in her black robe 
and withering roses. 

You have been up all night, have you not 
he asked, by way of greeting, taking her little 
hand. There was a tenderness in his voice 
that she could not but hear. 

“Yes, but you — when did you return.? 
How is it that you are stirring so early .? ” she 
asked. 

“ I was waiting for you to come by,” he said, 
dropping his voice almost to a whisper, and 
biting his lip as a pause. “I found, when I 
arrived last night, that you were not at home ; 
and I could not rest till I had seen you. I have 
had a fear always about me that you would be 
gone when I came back.” 

“ Gone .? ” she echoes. She has quite forgot- 
ten that impulse which had visited her after 
reading the letter Blount left her. It is long 
ago — it is weeks now — since she said to him, 
“ I may have to go.” 

“ Then you will be content — you will stay 
here .? ” he says, a light breaking over his dark, 
heavy features. The new hope transfigures 


2I8 


THE GEORGIANS. 


him. He looks younger, handsomer : all the 
sadness, the ache of half-hopeless passion, de- 
serts him. The weeks of absence have wrought 
with him too : and now, as they move on to- 
gether, he looks into her face, and sees its 
sweetness, its color ; he feels subtly the absence 
of the faint, slight reserve, which has before 
been in her manner ; and something is loosen- 
ing the pressure on his heart as they go up the 
lane side by side towards the little gate where 
he met her on the night of the ball ; and she is 
saying, 

I am content. I feel grateful daily to my 
uncle for bringing me here. It is beautiful — 
it is perfect — this summer. What a climate ! 
What skies to live under ! What kindness 
about one on all hands ! It seems to me that 
no one has spoken a harsh, envious, untruth- 
ful word in my hearing for months.. Every- 
body is good to me : every one I can serve is 
too grateful.^ If I live to be old here, I shall 
grow to be peaceful and happy myself.” 

They come to the little side-gate. She 
pauses here as he opens it. 

'‘You will come over and bring Kate to- 


CONFESSION. 219 

day?” she asks. *‘I must hear from her an 
account of these long weeks.” 

“ I will bring her over later,” he says. “ May 
I not come in now — ^just to walk to the house 
with you ? ” his eyes glancing wishfully to the 
green trees within, as if beneath their boughs 
lay paradise. 

Certainly. I paused only because I fancied 
you must go. : you find every thing waiting the 
master, at home, I suppose ; ” and she moved on 
beside him. 

“There is nothing I care for at home,” he 
says, in low but impetuous tones. “ Perhaps I 
have no right to say it — perhaps to think this 
is presumption — but I am at peace, at home, 
nowhere, unless I am near you — unless I” — 

“ Hush ! ” she cries softly, a great rosy flame 
sweeping up into her cheeks, while her eyes 
gather pure lightnings. Command and en- 
treaty blend in the one word ; but something 
in the tremor of her Jip, the swift interlacing of 
her hands, spurs him onward resistlessly. 

“You are too good to hush me before I have 
made one appeal,” he says, facing her as she 
pauses. “You may think me too daring, but 


220 


THE GEORGIANS. 


you are gracious. I come to you as a man 
to a woman — the most perfect, the dearest — 
and Nature makes me the lower of us two. 
But let me say that I love you ; let me say that 
my love is ready to bear all things, wait, suf- 
fer ; that it cannot fail ; that it will urge me 
forward, make of me any thing you would have 
me, if you will be my wife.” 

Until that last word she has stood aloof, her 
hand raised a little, while she strives as vainly 
as a phantom to speak ; then, with a sob, 
stretching both hands out, she looks up to him 
with a pitiful smile. 

“ You are good ! you are good, after all ! ” she 
cries, both hands in his, clasped there firmly. 
‘‘You cannot have known — you were honest ! 
I can trust you still. You will go — and ask 
Kate for the letter.” 

“ The letter What letter ? What can any 
thing matter } ” he answers, every pulse throb- 
bing at her nearness, every vein full with hope. 
“ Come this way ; come a little farther ; we 
shall not be observed here,” he says gently, 
seating her on the bench under the magnolia 
which the heavy hedge screens from the house. 


CONFESSION. 


221 


He kneels down beside her, still clasping her 
hands, and looks into her face with an intense 
look on his own that makes her tremble. 
‘‘What you have to say I will wait for — so!” 
he adds, with an abandon entirely unlike his 
olden reserve. 

“ Do not kneel by me,” she implores faintly. 
“I cannot speak to you in this way. You are 
terrible.” 

He bends his head closer : his swarthy cheek 
flames : her yielding, her tenderness, it seems 
at first, cannot be mistaken ; and yet the pite- 
ous look in her eyes grows into such vivid dis- 
tress that he checks himself quickly, and rises 
to his feet with a sudden change of expression. 

“Tell me, so, then,” he concedes, stretching 
up his hand, and taking an involuntary hold 
upon a branch of the tree above them. Will 
it be yea, or nay ? 

And then she says slowly, — 

“I am — I am already a wife.” Her body 
burns slowly ; her head is hung down ; she does 
not see his face. 

“ Whose wife.?” he asks, after a moment in 
which he doubts the evidence of his senses, but 


222 


THE GEORGIANS. 


feels himself shaken by some unknown horror. 
“ Whose wife ?” is all he can ask, in incredulous 
amaze. 

“Count Orlanoff — is living,” she answers, 
•slowly as before. “We are parted — forever. 
I wrote of it all to Kate. I meant you to 
know.” 

He turns from her, and his face is hidden 
upon the upstretched arm whose hand grasps 
the slender branch of the tree. His frame 
trembles, but he does not speak. He is utter- 
ing some voiceless, half-unconscious prayer. 

At last she rises, and comes timidly nearer. 

“ It has been all my fault,” she says, in a tol- 
erably steady voice. “You are not to blame. 
It was I, who tried to keep a secret, and yet be 
honest. I meant to know no one, tell no one, 
be pitied and talked of by nobody. It had been 
a hard life for years. But I meant you and 
Kate to know — at last. Perhaps she or you 
lost the letter. Perhaps it would have been 
braver to speak, face to face, long ago. But 
forgive me. I have meant no wrong.” 

“Forgive you .^” he says huskily, turning on 
her a face so full of dark heavy lines that she 


CONFESSION’. 223 

scarcely knows it. I fo.rgive you — but you ? 
Are you happy 

‘‘My husband,” she says, with white lips, “is 
mad — is insane, a great doctor says hopelessly 
so. We had been very wretched before that. 
I have never been happy for long,” she adds, 
faltering. 

Laurens bends on her a stony gaze. 

“You were wretched — and then he went 
crazy, and then you deserted him he ques- 
tions roughly. 

“ Do you care to hear all ? Perhaps I owe 
you so much,” she says coldly, but with an 
effort. She trembles, and something stirs with- 
in him that prompts him to hand her back to 
her seat. Then after a pause, he sits also, at a 
little distance, and turns his eyes on her. 

“ It is not a long story,” she says, her hands 
pressed together. “I was eighteen, he was 
over thirty. My mother and father were dead. 
My father’s nearest kinsman, my guardian, was 
married to a Russian lady, — a widow when he 
met her, and wealthy. She professed to be 
fond of me : she made the match ; nobody ob- 
jected except the old aunt I afterwards went to 


224 


THE GEORGIANS. 


— rny father’s aunt. .M. Orlanoff pleased me: 
I was young and confiding. His sister, my 
chaperone, settled it. We were married, and 
lived at first in Paris, and sometimes visited 
St. Petersburg, and, later, his Russian estates. 
I was quite blind for some time to what every 
one else knew of familiarly, — my hus — Count 
Orlanoff’s vices. At last he probably wearied 
of concealment, or thought me too childish to 
consider. I encountered upon his estates — I 
cannot tell you how, it is too long — he had 
children there ; and their mother, who had 
been the French governess of his sister’s chil- 
dren at the beginning, was with them. One of 
his sons was born before our marriage, and one 
two years after. Anna, his sister, had known 
all. Do you think I could ever forgive her } ” 

She turns her pallid face upon her compan- 
ion, forgetting for an instant, in her sense of 
bitter wrong, the more recent anguish, until 
she sees his pinched-in lips and gloomy eyes. 

You had loved him then } ” he mutters. 

‘*As a girl may, — ignorant, foolish. I had 
not known the world. I was just twenty-one, 
three years married, and well-ruled, till then. 


CONFESSION. 


225 . 


After that I was very ill for a time. His sister 
made the journey from Paris to see me. I 
think that she meant to be kind. One night, 
when I was nearly well, my bed was set on fire 
by some one ; she said, by this woman. Count 
Orlanoff sent her away then to some distant 
place, and my burns were healed as I healed 
Kate’s. So I got well. I wished to have died. 
But I had more to bear. I could not forgive 
Anna, — Anna Vasilievna, as all called her 
there ; and one day, when her patience was 
wearied, she became very angry, and said, 
‘Will you pretend that you did not know, in 
Paris, that first year, that you had two rivals ? 
You passed them on your drives. He was with 
them in public. The whole world knew of it.’ 
That was the end. ‘All this has come to other 
women,’ she said. Perhaps some women love 
on after such things as these. For me, I loved 
no one any more. I took up life again, and 
faced the world ; I returned with him to Paris 
after; we were seen together in public occa- 
sionally, and I was still known as his wife, but 
I never saw him in private. Sometimes we 
passed months apart. I travelled without him. 


226 


THE GEORGIANS. 


but with people he liked. Then one day, three 
years later, his sister told me ‘ the whole world 
was laughing at him for being in love with his 
wife.’ She said that he noticed no woman but 
me, and that every one saw the change in him. 
But it was too late, — it was too late.” 

There is a long pause. 

** And the end } ” 

She lifts her head. 

“In the end he lost his old friends, and 
seemed to have no art in making new ones. 
His chief and increasing passion seemed to be 
gaming, and he lost and won largely that win- 
ter. A duel grew out of a game in which he 
was accused of treachery : he killed his antago- 
nist, and the young man’s family was possessed 
of great influence and wealth. The deed cost 
Count Orlanoff the last dregs of his social pop- 
ularity. His mind became affected, as I sup- 
pose ; and his madness took the form of a 
frantic desire to keep his* disgrace from me. 
To that end he armed himself one night, eluded 
his attendants, and made his way to my apart- 
ments. There he was recaptured as he was 
kneeling beside me, his pistol at my head, im- 


CONFESSION. 227 

ploring me wildly to consent to die with 
him." 

Laurens starts, and looks at her for the first 
time without a trace of selfish passion, a great 
pity finally overcoming all other feeling. 

“His sister and her husband placed him 
under the best medical care, and assumed all 
responsibility for his future, the doctors pro- 
nouncing him incurably insane. They said 
that the very mention of my name was agitat- 
ing to him ; and by their decree I saw him no 
more. I retired from the gay world forever; 
and with the small sum — as small as possible 
— which I received yearly from his estate, I 
went to live with the old aunt I spoke of, who 
was my best friend. She died after nearly two 
years, and then I came here. I am young ; I 
had to live somewhere; and here I thought I 
might be lost to the past forever." 

“Since you saw him, then, it is how long?" 
he asks very gently. 

“ It is more than two years." 

“And you have been living this lonely, un- 
natural life, — you who might have been sc 
beloved, so happy " — 


228 


THE GEORGIANS. 


“ Ah, my friend, let us not say what might 
have been ! I am no more unhappy now than 
I have been for five years — not so unhappy, in 
fact. The three years I lived in the world after 
I had lost all faith, all security — those were the 
worst. This is peace : these last months have 
been almost happiness.” 

“ Can you not become free, legally } ” he asks 
quickly, with a flash of hope. 

She shakes her head slowly. 

I cannot. I would not, at the price of de- 
claring all these sins of his to the public,” she 
answers steadily. 

You really love him,” Laurens murmurs. 

A proud, reproachful look meets his own. 
She is silent. 

'‘I have nothing to hope.?” he pleads in a 
low tone. “ Oh ! what would I not give for the 
chance to make you happy, just for. once .? My 
life would be little ! ” 

“You can make me happy,” she says softly. 
“You can give me the joy of still trusting you. 
I do honor, I trust, I believe in you : do not 
take that from me. Ask me nothing : I know 
you will ask nothing! Go — go, now: I do 
want to do right I ” 


CONFESSION. 


229 


Laurens has taken her cold little hand, and 
laid it against his burning cheek. All the love, 
repressed, denied, puti^own, of all his life, has 
centred on this womanj^and all this pent-up 
passion struggles with a manhood mightier for 
long self-denial. Yet that last cry of hers — 
the mute confession of the eyes that meet his 
oWn — have nearly overcome him : the thought 
of one farewell kiss, one long embrace, dazzles, 
dissolves his brain ; yet he gains strength to 
free the tender hand; and, starting up, without 
one brief farewell he strides away through the 
trees, and soon is lost to sight. 



But in the wreck of all our hopes 
There's yet some touch of bliss^ 
Since fate robs not our wretchedness 
Of this last kiss: 

Despair^ and love^ and madness meet 
In this, in this!" 


William Motherwell. 



AFTER THE WEDDING. 


233 


CHAPTER XL 

AFTER THE WEDDING. 

ATE and Bride had been chatting for a 
long time on the piazza at The Pines, oh 
the day of Kate’s return : the arrangements for 
Bride’s wedding were being discussed between 
them with the keenest interest. The marriage 
was to take place at midsummer, when Capt. 
Ferguson would have leave for two months : 
the young couple were going to Canada on 
their wedding journey. Bride had just suc- 
ceeded in winning Kate’s promise to act as her 
bridesmaid on this all-important occasion, as- 
suring her that it would be no disrespect to her 
grandfather’s memory to take such a share in 
the mild festivities of this quiet wedding : there 
would be very few guests. It was to take place 
in the evening; the bride and groom would 
leave The Pines early, and spend the night at a 


234 


THE GEORGIANS, 


hotel in the city, taking the morning train for 
the North ; Mrs. Davidge was to go with them 
as far as the Virginia Springs. 

These matters having been discussed with 
much interest by the two girls, and every detail 
of dress and adornment gone over, Kate sprang 
up readily at sfght of Mme. Orlanoff, who ap- 
peared at the window, wearing hat and gloves. 

‘‘Have you just come in? How glad I am' 
to see you ! ” Kate said, going to meet her. 

Mme. Orlanoff looked over at Bride. 

“You must let me appropriate Kate now,” 
she said ; and, withdrawing into the dim parlor, 
she sat down on the low couch by the side 
door, and drew Kate to her side. She had just 
come in by this side way from Miss Palestine’s : 
she had gone to carry flowers, and found the 
dead mother encofflned, and Miss Tiny sur- 
rounded by two or three kindly old women who 
had come to stay all night, and watch by the 
dead. The minister, Mr. Beech, and Laurens, 
who was a church steward, were coming away 
as she entered. She had exchanged a cold bow 
with them : he had not lingered to see her 
home this time. She had come in full of the 


AFTER THE WEDDJNG. 235 

sad sense of change, and now turned to Kate 
with more than usual longing for the young 
girl’s affection. 

“ Come, give me your hand, dear, and tell me 
if you thought of me while you were gone,” 
she said, taking the girl’s firm rosy hand in her 
slight one. 

Of course, — often and over again,” Kate 
said, with a tinge of embarrassment. ‘‘But, 
Mme. Orlanoff — Mark quite forgot — grand- 
father was so ill — to give me your letter. This 
morning, after we had come back, you see, he 
gave it me. Then I read it, and gave it to him. 
You must have thought it so strange, I said 
nothing in reply when I wrote from grand- 
fatner's.” 

“ No, no, I did not. Your letters were hur- 
ried and short. And your brother gave you the 
letter to-day ? ” 

“ Yes : just before I came over. He wanted 
to keep it then. May he have it } ” 

“It is of no consequence,” Mme. Orlanoff 
said, stifling the throb of her heart. 

“I — I was very sorry for you,” Kate mur- 
mured. “ I knew you must have had some 


236 THE GEORGIANS. 

great trouble; but I supposed it was losing 
your husband, and that you had loved each 
other very much.” 

The young girl was gently stroking her 
friend’s hand, which closed nervously at this 
last word. 

‘‘ I used to think and wonder about you by 
the hour: I used to hope — I used to build 
great air-castles,” Kate went on in a low voice. 

Perhaps it is wrong, but I feel yet as if some 
of them may come true for you some day.” 

Mme. Orlanoff drew the girl closer, and 
kissed her in a way that half frightened the 
innocent recipient of these rare caresses. 

“ Kate, love me ! I have not a friend, not 
a kinswoman, so near to my heart as you are, 
child. You will stayxwith me when Bride is 
gone, a great deal ; will you not, dear ” 

Oh ! I have a great favor to ask you,” Kate 
said shyly yet eagerly. ^‘Can it not be — 
Would you not take a journey with me } I have 
always so wanted to travel; and now I have 
money, and I could go to Europe with you. 
Not to France, if you would not like ; but could 
we not visit England and Italy and Germany — 
go this year } ” 


AFTER THE WEDDING. 237 

“ Then you are an heiress ? ” 

*‘No: grandfather left Mark his chief heir. 
The will was made some months ago. He said 
he had always heard good things of Mark, and 
he was the only one to bear the name : he 
wanted to see us before dying, but it made no 
change in his will. My aunt Belle, who is a 
rich widow with one daughter, had fifteen thou- 
sand dollars from him ; and I am to have 
twenty-five when I am twenty-one or get mar- 
ried, and two thousand a year until then. Just 
think of it ! We never spent two thousand a 
year in our lives, both together, before this. 
And Mark says I shall have half his income if 
I choose to spend it, besides.” 

“ He wishes us, then, to travel together ? ” 

*‘No: that I’ve not spoken of yet. I asked 
him if he would not go, and he said that he 
thought he could not. That is all we have said 
on the subject.” 

“ Will it take long to settle your grandfather’s 
estate ? ” 

No : Mark thinks it will not. Aunt Belle 
seems to be perfectly satisfied : she says she 
has known of the will all along. The only 


238 


THE GEORGIANS. 


thing she had to say was to beg us to come 
and live there at the old home place. She said 
she would give Mark her daughter for a wife if 
he’d come.” 

Mme, Orlanoff heard this remark, which 
could only have been made in the form of a 
jest, with wide, serious eyes. Forgetting the 
difference in the marriage-customs of France 
and America, her heart contracted. 

‘‘ And your cousin — is she very pretty ? ” 

‘‘Yes, very: two years older than I, but 
looking five years younger. She is tiny and 
fair, and has a skin like a baby’s ; a perfect 
contrast to Mark, who says she is the daintiest 
little piece of humanity living. She is rich, 
too, and she dresses beautifully. I felt clumsy 
and beggar-maidish beside her.” 

“And did you come to love her.? You were 
there for weeks,” Felicia said slowly, her eyes 
cast down indifferently, but her lips rather 
tremulous. 

“ Well, we liked her, of course : there is 
nothing to dislike about her,” Kate said cheer- 
fully. “ As to loving, that comes rather slowly 
with us ; only you — you took us all by storm.” 


AFTER THE WEDDING. 239 

‘'Your brother is here to walk home with 
you, Kate,” Bride said at the window. “ He 
will not come in, and he will not sit down. He 
says it is growing too late. I think he is horri- 
bly cross.” 

Felicia went out on the piazza with Kate. 

“ You do not intend to stop visiting us alto- 
gether, I trust,” she said in a light tone, giving 
Laurens her hand in farewell as he took Kate 
away. 

“Not if you will permit me to come,” he 
replied in his most serious manner, respectfully 
releasing her hand. 

He went away with his sister, and Felicia 
stood alone by the steps. A large star shone 
in the faint rosy sky towards the west : the 
trees stood up dark against the evening glow. 
A whippoorwill called from the grove. The 
evening was peaceful and calm; but for those 
two, farther and farther separated every mo- 
ment by Laurens’s resolute steps, nothing 
existed in all the world at that time but a sense 
of their own passionate pain. 


It is at last midsummer. Bride and her 


240 THE GEORGIANS. 

lover have jested away the weeks before their 
wedding-day: Kate and Jack have amused 
themselves, now sedately, now gayly, with one 
another’s aid. Mrs. Davidge has found the 
time for surrendering her only daughter to an- 
other’s keeping to come swiftly. But the weeks 
have not been blithe to Mme. Orlanoff, and 
they have been heavy and slow for Laurens. 
These two have steadily, consciously, painfully, 
avoided each other. Amidst all the pain of it 
they have had the joy of contemplating each 
other with eyes to which none of the bright- 
ness is dimmed, none of the beauty is faded, 
in the unattainable object of love. They find 
nothing to blame in one another. To him she 
is pure as a star, as far beyond censure or 
cavil, though so cold that he catches no warmth 
from her ; to her he is daily more surely the 
one man of men, strong, worthy of trust, self- 
controlled^ the uneasy doubt known to women, 
the failure to measure love by its silence at 
need, giving her some sore moments indeed. 

And the night for Bride’s wedding is come, 
and Kate has come over with Laurens in time 
for the bridesmaid’s privilege in assisting to 


AFTER THE WEDDING. 24 1 

complete the bride’s toilet. She runs lightly 
up-stairs, and he is left below alone. He walks 
up and down the piazzas, and looks into the 
well-known room, prepared for the bridal, — 

“ Rose-sweet and hushed with lilies still.” 

He enters, goes to Mme Orlanoff’s own corner, 
rests on her low couch between side-door and 
window ; lays his hand on the dark curtain 
bordered with a Greek pattern in yellow silk, 
which is drawn back from the window, and 
makes an effective bit of drapery behind her 
low green-velvet chair. Near him stands the 
light gilded table, which he remembers with its 
salver of pansies, as stationed at her right 
hand when he first saw her face. It is crowned 
now with roses, — white roses, whose creamy 
hearts breathe heavy summer perfume. If all 
these wax candles were out, if the moonlight 
could float through the room, if she sat on 
that chair, and the roses — He starts up, rest- 
less, and goes out through the side-door into 
the night air. He aimlessly wanders about. 
Some charm in that place, with a soft, fatal 
fascination, has mastered his will for a time; 


242 THE GEORGIANS. 

but he will not go back till the mist has. all left 
him, and he can meet her pure eyes with 
honest ones. On this mood breaks at last the 
sound of the Wedding March, faintly; and, 
hastily nearing the house, he comes to the side- 
door, by which he has left the room recently ; 
and standing there, with his dark hair slightly 
disordered, the collar of his dress-coat awry, 
he looks in, and sees the bride and groom enter 
by the opposite door, preceded by that “ comely 
bachelor” Jack Stevens, leading in Kate Laur- 
ens, fair in her long white dress. Bride’s face 
is a trifle pale as it appears, a shade less saucy 
than ’tis wont to be ; but Capt. Ferguson wears 
well the elate air of a happy lover. Any one 
glancing at that instant from his beaming face 
to Laurens’s moody one may note as strong a 
contrast in expression as is often seen. 

A moment only the tardy guest stays his 
eyes upon the bridal pair. As they advance, 
and stand before the minister, he looks about, 
and sees, standing with her aunt, the mistress 
of The Pines ; and for the first time sees her 
en grande toilette. She wears a velvet gown of 
dark blue just distinct from black : it is cut low 


AFTER THE WEDDING, 243 

and square in front, revealing her fair white 
neck to eyes profane, though modesty and 
point-lace veil her bosom : and on the round 
arm, uncovered to the elbow, and in her ears, 
her diamonds, which she has not worn for 
years, are sparkling and burning as only fine 
stones can. These are magnificent : they beam 
against her lovely hair, and palpitate upon her 
soft neck, circling her graceful throat. She is 
a radiant creature, and his eyes refuse to leave 
her ; but he gazes on her with a hopeless pas- 
sion, as one may who looks upon a treasure 
meant for him but perverted to another’s use, 
and realize its value from afar. This, then, is 
what the world has paid for all it took from her : 
the Orlanoff paid these great diamonds for pos- 
sessron of her, and society has been used to 
see her wear his jewels, even as his mistress 
did no doubt. He sees her as the world has 
often seen her, — stately, serene, resplendent, — 
and a suffocating madness fills his breast. She 
is beautiful indeed, but not his own. To him 
she was far lovelier in a worn black dress, with 
withering pink roses on her breast ; or wearing 
simple white as she sorted books beside him, or 


244 


THE GEORGIANS. 


lay along the branch of a tree with green leaves 
fluttering round her, and fallen flowers dimpling 
the watery mirror below. 

Twain are made one, and he has heard no 
word ; the few friends present are offering their 
congratulations now ; the music throbs once 
more : he must go in. He gets through the 
formalities of the occasion passably, and lurks 
in corners and the hall most of the ensuing 
time. He is sent for at last by Mme. Orlanoff, 
who presents him to Capt. Ferguson’s cousin 
Maude, an accomplished chatfirbox, whom he 
escorts to supper dutifully : she cannot be dis- 
concerted by a silent companion, and she has 
heard that Laurens has a fortune, and finds him 
very charming, very quaint. She tells Jack so 
next day. 

The evening passes : Bride has danced it 
through, her bright face full of its own saucy 
gayety once more. Kate is a belle among the 
officers, the captain’s special friends, who have 
come out ; the colonel’s wife and daughter, and 
Maude Ferris, seem to enjoy the little party 
vastly ; Mme. Orlanoff talks with each one, 
receives homage from all except from one, her 


AFTER THE WEDDING. 


245 


neighbor Marcus Laurens. And then the even- 
ing closes : they drive off, bride and groom, 
Mrs. Davidge and Miss Ferris, the colonel’s 
family, the officers. The minister has gone ^ 
back long ago, a round fee in his pocket. Only 
Jack, who has taken a carriage for his own pri- 
vate use, expecting to accompany Kate home, 
lingers still : she is going to stay all night with 
Madame, he finds. Kate and the lieutenant 
stand by the piano, with half a hundred last 
little things to say. Laurens goes out to Mme. 
Orlanoff, who has accompanied her aunt to the 
front steps, and, having seen her go, is now 
about to re-enter the house alone. • 

“ Kate tells me you wish her to remain,” he 
says. “ I will therefore say good-night, and 
leave her to you.” 

“Good-night,” she answers, putting out her 
hand. Her delicate, spirited face is lifted 
slightly: there is just a little reproachful 
shadow in the sweet, clear eyes. 

“Forgive me if I want to ask a question,” he 
says softly, taking and holding her slight hand. 

“Ask.” 

“ Who gave you the diamonds that you wear 
to-night } ” he asks bluntly, half roughly. 


246 


THE GEORGIANS. 


“Some were my mother’s,” she replies in a 
low tone ; but she is flushing hotly. It is not 
with anger, but with sweeter feeling, yet blent 
with shame, that she submits to him. “ Many 
were hers, some from my father’s family ; and 
— and — one ornament I wear given by Count 
Orlanoff,” she adds with reluctance. All were 
worn — she knows it in her heart — to dazzle 
eyes that now look on her sternly. 

“Which is his.J*” Laurens asks in a lower, 
more unfriendly tone. 

She puts her hand up, and unclasps her neck- 
lace, leaving her white neck bare ; she holds 
the circle, the fine pendant, the seven great 
stones and many of lesser size, meekly out- 
stretched in her small, trembling hand. He 
draws her closer, into the shadow, out of the 
dporway, and shuts her fingers tightly on the 
jewels. 

‘ “ Now promise me,” he says with uncon- 
trolled, impierious vehemence, “that you will 
never wear this thing again.” 

“ I never will,” she answers tremulously. 

The next moment she feels his swift arms 
enclose her; his lips have grazed her neck just 


AFTER THE WEDDING. 


247 


where the pendant has been lying; just a 
breath, and, like a man terrified at his own 
audacity, he sets her free ; she sees his face, 
intense with a look she never can forget, flash 
in the lamplight at the door ; and the next 
instant he has leaped to the path below, and is 
gone from sight. 


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“ Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are sealed. 

I strove against the stream^ and all in vain. 

Let the great river take me to the main. 

No 7nore, dear love, for at a touch I yield : 

Ask me no more ! ” 

Tennyson. 



- A t. 



THE MIDNIGHT HOUR. 


251 


CHAPTER XIL 

THE MIDNIGHT HOUR. 

' I "'HE next afternoon was waning when Lau- 
rens came up by the front way to The 
Pines. He walked slowly, with bent head, as 
if thinking deeply as he came. His face was 
paler than usual ; but it did not lend itself 
readily to the betrayal of feeling, and bore no 
other marks of an unquiet night and day. As 
he neared the house he looked up, and his eyes 
met those of the woman who filled all his 
thoughts. She was sitting upon the piazza, a 
book in her lap. Kate was lying stretched out 
in the hammock. The girl was sweetly, serenely 
sleeping; but he did not know that till Felicia 
rose, and, coming down the steps to meet him, 
said softly, — 

She is making up for last night’s excite- 
ment. She is fast asleep now. I wished,” she » 
added, “to see you alone.” 


252 


THE GEORGIANS. 


Her voice was slightly tremulous, but her 
manner serene. She looked at him with calm 
eyes whose purity awed him. 

“I have come to ask your forgiveness,” he 
said, more subdued than he ever had been in 
her presence. 

“ Will you consider that I have a right to ask 
you a favor .? ” she said still serenely. 

“ A right to command any thing.” 

“ I have a favor to ask you. Let us walk up 
and down,” she replied. 

They conversed in low tones for the half of 
an hour, pacing slowly side by side. From the 
first he had clasped his hands behind him, and 
bowed his lofty head, keeping his eyes for the 
most part upon the dull path. She glanced up, 
now and then, as they walked, to where Kate 
lay asleep in the hammock. No stir betokened 
her awaking, and with Kate feigning was un- 
known. 

When these two paused at last in their walk- 
ing, she said, — 

“ And you can be ready } ” 

‘‘In two or three weeks I can make my 
arrangements.” 


THE MIDNIGHT HOUR. 


253 


“Make it two.” 

“ It shall be two.” 

They shook hands, very simply and closely 
clasping each other’s fingers a moment ; then 
they parted, and he went his way. 

When Kate woke, Mme. Orlanoff was sitting 
where she had been when Kate lost conscious- 
ness. Her dark eyes were upon the girl’s rosy 
face, which smiled at her with childlike love. 

“Kate, your brother will take you to Eu- 
rope,” Mme. Orlanoff said, with abruptness. 
The girl started up with wide, shining eyes. 

“ Will he ? What, truly ! And you, dear ” 

“I shall be left alone,” said Felicia. “I was 
meant for a solitary.” 

“ I won’t go without you,” Kate said impul- 
sively, springing out of the hammock, and 
kneeling beside her friend’s chair. Mme. Or- 
lanoff bent down, and kissed her. 

“ You will go. It is best, and I wish it,” she 
said, in a faltering tone. 

Kate looked into the face bent above her, then 
put her two young, round arms about the proud 
neck of the lady. The girl’s heart was stirred : 
it was solemnized. 


254 


THE GEORGIANS. 


“Dearest, sweetest, best!” she said softly. 
“ There is no one on earth half so true, half so 
good. I can’t even say how I honor you. You 
can’t even wish a thing that is not right.” 

“Hush! hush!” Mme. Orlanoff said. She 
rose, kissed and lifted her youthful worshipper 
gently. “ Come in. I am going to the piano, 
Kate. If you will wait till I’m tired of playing, 
we will talk over all your arrangements. In 
two weeks you leave me, little one.” 

The two weeks had run out : the last day had 
come to the sunsetting hour. Kate had spent 
all the time with Mme. Orlanoff, save a day in 
the first week, which she spent with the family 
of Mr. Beech, the minister of the Methodist 
church. That had not been a very gay day : 
the children were all cross and ailing. Kate 
came away pitying preachers. 

Mme. Orlanoff clung to the girl more and 
more as the swift days slipped past her. The 
unspoken faith of those eyes, the loyal, sweet 
homage Kate gave her, half-strengthened, half- 
humbled her daily. She had become used to 
the fact that girls knew of such things in this 


THE MIDNIGHT HOUR. 


255 


country, read and spoke sometimes of such 
things, as love, pure or wicked. She knew 
Kate suspected her brother’s love, and felt that 
her own would have been won if it were right. 
The girl’s faith in them both humbled her. 
She had been upright outwardly, indeed : but 
she knew the weak joints of her harness; she 
knew the wild thoughts, the deep wish, the 
constant dwelling of her mind on one theme, 
the joy in each sign of her power over this 
pure, this unfeignedly virtuous. God-fearing 
man. She loved him as entirely for his good- 
ness as any world-worn man loves an innocent 
girl for the same charm. She would have 
hated him if she had believed another could 
have tempted him in his integrity ; but she 
would have relinquished any thing sooner than 
the attraction she possessed for the strong, un- 
used heart of this man. She had had strength 
to tell him that there must be no farewells at 
the last : yet all that last day her mind dwelt 
on the hour he had asked her to give him ; he 
had wished a few minutes alone, after Kate had 
retired. 

On that afternoon, he was locked for some 


256 


THE GEORGIANS. 


hours in his room ; late, when night had come, 

* he wrote thus to her : — 

“You were right, and I shall not try to see you again. 
I cannot see you and keep silence ; you know that : but 

• I will not say again what will pain you. If I should pro- 
fane your ears with the passion that so sways me, you, O 
most dear and honored one ! would not feel, as you will 
now, that I have appreciated the strength of your dignity, 
and revered all that I have so vainly desired. I am 
going away without any other word than this ; for I do 
revere you, — I adore you! Never can I see you more, 
unless I can look into your face without repressing all 
the love that asks you for a wife. I shall live and die 
yours. 

“ Marcus Laurens.” 

He took the letter in his hand, and walked 
over to The Pines late that night. There were 
no lights to be seen about the house. She was 
at rest, then. He drew nearer, and then he 
descried a faint line of light shining from under 
the door which led into the side-path. He 
stood perfectly still under the magnolia. He 
did not approach the house for a long time ; and, 
when he did so, it was with a triumphant sense 
of virtue. Pie would not knock; he held the 


THE MIDNIGHT HOUR. 257 

letter in his hand ; he kissed the name upon it, 
and laid it on the door-sill : he slipped it 
beneath the door, and then knelt down in a 
passion, and bent his forehead towards the 
senseless threshold over which her feet so often 
passed. As he was kneeling, the door opened 
noiselessly ; a dim light fell upon him ; he 
lifted his face, and felt it swept by the trem- 
bling hand of a woman. 

Come in,” said a voice which to him was an 
angel’s. 

He felt her arm draw him forward ; the door 
was shut : he clasped her in both his arms, 
gently at the first, and then closer. Their lips 
met : he had never felt kisses before. She lay 
throbbing there in his arms, soft, warm as an 
imprisoned bird, as helpless and pure in his 
eyes. 

After that long embrace of greeting, Felicia 
put her lover from her, and sat down in her low 
easy-chair. Laurens knelt at her feet, far more 
agitated than she : she looked into his impas- 
sioned face with something pathetic in her 
gaze. 

“ My dearest,” she said very softly, “ I have 


258 


THE- GEORGIANS. 


done what until this moment I have thought 
wrong, — I have met you as if it were a wicked, 
secret thing to do. But all has been changed 
to my eyes. Ought there to be no difference 
made between a bad and heartless man and 
such as you } I could not love a bad man ; but 
you — oh ! you have a right to something from 
me in this last hour. You have a right to 
know that I love you : you will not honor me 
the less that I tell you so before you go.” Her 
tones had become more unsteady : his face, 
close to hers, shook her calmness. 

But if you should never return — if I 
should die — if you were lost, — I should wish I 
had told you the truth. Sweetheart, I have 
never loved till now. Take this — take all my 
heart — go ! ” 

She took his face between her trembling 
hands, and bowed herself as if to give the part- 
ing kiss. Laurens moved, drew a deep, sighing 
breath, clasped her as a drowning man may, 
and sank half-unconscious on her breast. ’ 


Midnight past : not a sound of aught 

Through the silent house but the wind at his prayers 


THE MIDNIGHT HOUR. 259 

Felicia sat by her lover, flushed and su- 
premely beautiful, on the low couch. Laurens, 
so pale that his large dark eyes looked unearth- 
ly, was holding her little hand to his lips, and 
softly kissing its palm. 

Through the wide silence they heard no 
sound. Nothing existed for them in this uni- 
verse except each other. A long kiss lay on 
Felicia’s hand, soft as a rose-leaf, just as a ray 
of light fell full across the two. 

Suddenly, soundlessly, one stood in the door, 
clad all in white, tall, terrible, a light-bearer. 
With one hand at her throat, her hair fallen 
about her, looking .aghast upon their startled 
faces, there like a spirit she stood, one instant 
only. Not one word was uttered. Young, 
pale and awful, Kate stood, light in hand, a 
moment only, and the door was shut. 

A horrible pause followed. Laurens only 
had moved ; and now he stood erect, with a 
gigantic calm of manner. 

My darling, we must call her back,” he said 
in tones decided yet gentle. ‘‘ She must not 
— misunderstand. Go, bring her — or I will.” 

He made one stride towards the door; but 


26 o 


THE GEORGIANS. 


Mme. Orlanoff slipped like a snow-wreath to 
the floor, and lay about his feet. 

“ It was Kate ! it was Kate, who worshipped 
me ! She is so young, so severe, so merci- 
less ! She will never forgive me, for she 
trusted me ! ” 

Laurens lifted her, but she shrank from his 
arms. He knelt at her side, and talked to her 
soothingly and re-assuringly. She trembled 
like a frightened child. Nothing could be 
more dreadful to her than the distance she sud- 
denly discerned between herself and the young 
girl she had patronized and loved so long. 

In the early dawn she went to Kate’s door, 
and, knocking in vain, found it fastened. At 
sunrise she went again, and fruitlessly. Later 
she brought a key, and tried, successfully, to 
unlock the door from without. Kate lay on the 
bed, hoarsely moaning, her brown hair dishev- 
elled, and fever burning in her eyes. Her 
hand clutched her throat now and then. She 
made no answer to Mme. Orlanoff’s inquiries, 
but turned from her restlessly, and closed her 
eyes. 

Evidently she had felt ill in the night, and 


THE MIDNIGHT HOUR. 26 1 

innocently explored the house in search of her 
friend. It was terrible to Mme. Orlanoff to 
find her now so inaccessible to every word, ex- 
planation, entreaty. She besought her vainly 
for a look, a sign, to say that she would listen, 
that she could understand. Kate tossed to and 
fro, with closed eyes : if they opened, and fell 
upon Mme. Orlanoff, they were instantly avert- 
ed again. 

Brief, brief the hour of madness ! The slow, 
long days of retribution had begun : they had 
dawned before the morning. 




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“ She was so young, the light intense 

That seemed to guard her from her birth 
Spoke but of stainless innocence, 

Aytd purity too great for earth. 

Ah me! that light so pure should fade 
From eyes that in the grave are laid! ” 

R. C. Lehman. 




HOW KATE WENT AWAY. 


265 


CHAPTER XIIL 

HOW KATE WENT AWAY. 

T T 7HERE is she .? Well, well, well ! I 
^ ^ declare ! Now, you know that I can’t 
have my pet child down to be sick,” bustled old 
Dr. Potter, trundling into Kate’s sick-room, 
to which Laurens had summoned him by a 
messenger. Mme. Orlanoff looked up, pale 
and startled, a shade of fear in her fine eyes, 
as the family doctor, a round, jolly, self-confi- 
dent old man, came blithely in. He was not a 
formidable person at all : careless of dress, un- 
tidy in person, with a coarse white stubble of 
three days’ growth covering cheek and chin, 
and a fringe of sandy gray hair encircling his 
bald head, he was neither handsome nor at- 
tractive at first sight ; but he had a good, keen 
eye, a benevolent forehead and mouth, and, 
above all, he had more skill than a dozen neat- 


266 


THE GEORGIANS. 


er and more inexperienced physicians. Judge 
Wakefield had sworn by him for years ; the 
Laurenses trusted him fully ; and Mark turned 
his eyes on the cheery old face, as the doctor 
came in, with a look as of one who waits for a 
certain decision. 

“ Dr. Potter, this is Mme. Orlanoff,” Laurens 
said, delaying the old man on his way to his 
patient for one moment. 

The doctor looked at Laurens, whose solemn 
voice struck him, looked next at the lady, 
glanced down at his glove, pulled it off, and 
presented his hand. 

“Glad to know you, countess. I’ve heard of 
you,” he said, quite cordially. “ Kate’s full of 
your praises, you know. How is Kate } Is 
she really ill I” 

Without halting for a reply, he turned to the 
bed; looked at Kate; 'sank ponderously into a 
low chair, hitching it close to the bedside, and 
took the girl’s hand in. his own. 

When those two had the courage to look at 
him, they saw a change on his rubicund face. 
He had laid down the unconscious hand. He 
saw without a word that Kate did not know 


HO W KA TE WENT A WA K 267 

him. He said, unbuttoning his loose coat, very 
gravely,— , 

** There’s no case like this in the neighbor- 
hood. Parson Beech’s children have all had 
the fever, the last ones worse than the first 
two, who were scarcely in bed ; but they’ll do 
well. Kate has been to the parsonage } ” 

“No,” Laurens said. “I knew a week ago 
that they had scarlet-fever there.” 

“She went there — nearly two weeks ago,” 
Mme. Orlanoff said, very slowly. “ She staid 
there — all day. If she knew that they had 
fever there, she did not mention it when she 
came home. She said some of the children 
were ailing.” 

“ Has she scarlet-fever ” Laurens asked 
anxiously. 

“ She has,” said the doctor quite gently. 
“The milder forms give us more warning. 
The malignant seizes sometimes like this, and 
ends — as abruptly.” 

He turned half aside from the bed. Poor, 
pretty Kate, strong, careless Kate, lay stupidly 
drowsy and still. A few brownish patches dis- 
figured her fair face and neck : the eruption 


268 


THE GEORGIANS. 


had made no further appearance. Her hand 
moved towards her throat now and then. It 
was in her throat and her head that the pain 
had first seized her. 

‘*And yet — and if you had seen her last 
night, could you have done any thing to pre- 
vent this ” Mme. Orlanoff asked, with an an- 
guish whose secret he could not suspect. 

“I don’t know,” said the doctor, mercifully 
for her. She sank down in a chair by the foot 
of the bed. 

“ You think there is danger? ” said Laurens, 
with a knowledge of what would be replied. 

“ I know I can rely upon you, Mark ; and I 
never have tried to deceive you. She has a 
small chance for her life, but a very small one. 
We will try.” 

Miss Palestine reigned in the sick-room for 
one hour on one August day. Mme. Orlanoff 
had refused all assistance at first, and had 
nursed Kate herself, with Laurens to relieve 
her at times ; but Miss Pally had come to The 
Pines, and there had resolvedly staid, determined 
to repay some of her kindness to Mme. Orlanoff. 


HO W KA TE WENT A WA Y. 269 

She had whispered of her great experience in 
cases of sickness, whenever she could get a 
word with one of the three who could enter 
Kate’s room, — the doctor or Laurens or Feli- 
cia. She sat in the hall, and ran errands up 
and down stairs on the least occasion, her 
tiny gray figure slipping up and away with an 
alertness quite surprising. At last, on one day, 
when Laurens, who had laid down to rest, over- 
slept himself, and Felicia was too worn to wait 
longer, she called Miss Palestine in : the doctor 
had been gone some ten minutes. In his pres- 
ence Kate had never spoken. The brief attacks 
of more violent fever, the delirious mutterings 
Mme. Orlanoff feared, would perhaps occur no 
more to-day. At any rate, thoroughly weary, 
she called in Miss Tiny. 

“If she says a word — if the fever rises — 
you’ll call me at once,” she insisted, before 
leaving Miss Palestine in full charge ; and, re- 
ceiving this promise, she went forth, and 
crossed the wide hall to her room. 

The doctor, driving briskly away, had met 
a young man on horseback, who cantered by, 
his cap in his hand, and the sunshine glinting 


THE GEORGIANS. 


270 

through the trees now and then on his reddish- 
gold hair. Both were thinking of the same 
young maid.; the doctor with pitying heart, 
Jack Stevens quite eagerly, gayly. He had 
haunted the dep6t for days, expecting to see 
Kate off for Europe. At last, convinced that 
she had not left home, he was going to see 
her once more, in spite of an internal struggle. 
He had bidden her good-by once before, on the 
last afternoon she was well, expecting but a 
glimpse of her next day at the train ; and just 
then he had “nearly lost his head,” as he put 
it, and asked Kate to marry him : living on a 
second-lieutenant’s pay would be difficult for 
them, he was sure, but — well, he had only 
asked her to correspond with him while she 
was gone ; and she had said that she would 
decide, and let him know at the train. 

“If I see her again, I shall give in, and 
afford her the chance of refusing me,” he 
thought, as he dismounted at the door of The 
Pines, where he was sure to see her or hear of 
her. “ But then — if a fellow can’t help it, he 
can’t.” 

Mme. Orlanoff saw him alight. She had just 


HO W KA TE WENT AWAY. 2^1 

entered her own cool room, and was passing 
the window. A pang, sharp and sudden, seized 
upon her heart. Was that young Love who 
rode up so gayly to seek her whom Death per- 
haps had won } 

“ Oh, life for Kate ! life for her, love for her, 
joy — all abounding joys of happy wifehood, sa- 
cred motherhood, thou Creator and Giver of 
good ! ” Mme. Orlanoff prayed, sinking down on 
her knees by the bed, self and all its burdens for- 
got in the passionate fervor of prayer. “ Oh the 
sweet, short, and incomplete life ! the unround- 
ed circle of joy, the unknown rapture, the un- 
fulfilled womanhood ! Take not away her birth- 
right from this tender child ! Let me die in 
her stead ; let my life go for hers which might 
be so much better. Thou knowest. Thou know- 
est, only Thou ! ” 

How long she prayed, she never knew ; but 
through the last wailing petitions coldly smote 
the sound of horse’s feet. When she rose. Jack 
was just out of' sight, slowly pacing away 
through the trees, his head in a whirl, his heart 
heavy. A servant had said Kate was ill, — too 
ill to be left for a moment by the watchers up- 


2/2 THE GEORGIANS, 

stairs. He had gone — a load on his light 
heart that would not lift. 

Mme. Orlanoff sat on her bed, and pressed 
both her hands to her eyes. She had suffered 
with untold acuteness through the days of 
Kate’s illness, with a keenness of grief that 
eclipsed even that strong, restrained sorrow of 
Mark’s ; for a pain that her proud soul knew 
was deathless lay in the deeps of her torn heart 
— torn between a love that wished Kate back 
in life, and a mighty, unsuspected selfishness 
that whispered through each weary hour, Why 
desire her 1 Why wish her to live ? She never 
will love you again. Shall not dust cover those 
accusing eyes ? Shall not earth hide her, who, 
if she lives, will arise to win from you him upon 
whom your soul now depends ? She never will 
trust you any more ; she will honor, applaud 
you no more : she will be glad if he leaves you 
forever, and, taking some one else to his bosom, 
forsakes the love of you at last.” 

These devilish thoughts would not leave her : 
they tormented her, humbled and haunted her, 
returning in every conceivable shape. She felt 
the hatefulness of her egotism, her craving for 


HOW KATE WENT AWAY, 2/3 

honor and admiration, her cruel pride. But 
oh ! nevertheless — nevertheless, it would be 
bitter to live to be scorned, to know that one 
called her a hypocrite. Kate had done so one 
night, in her fever, hoarsely ringing every 
change upon her name before that. Madame 

— Madame Orlanoff — Madame la Comtesse — 
Felicia — F^lise — Countess Orlanoff ” — then 
suddenly, “Hypocrite!” in a low tone. She 
then had relapsed into silence ; and after a 
pause she had muttered, “ Mark ! Mark I I love 
you — don’t kiss her — don’t kiss her hand : it 
is all bloody ! She killed some one : I saw her, 

— dear Mark!” and then passed into vaguer 
delirious fancies. The dread of having her 
speak in her absence was terrible now to Feli- 
cia; but she was so weary to-day, that at last 
she fell into a slumber so deep that it took a 
loud rapping to make her start up some hours 
later. She hastily opened the door when 
aroused ; and Mark Laurens, without there, held 
out his hand to her gravely. 

“ She is sinking, I fear,” he said simply. 

Mme. Orlanoff flew to Kate’s side. Miss 
Palestine jwas trying to lift her ; and Mark 


274 


THE GEORGIANS. 


raised her up strongly now. She was struggling 
convulsively for breath. At one moment her 
eyes had a gleam of intelligence, mingled with 
the wild look of fright and pain : she raised to 
her brother a gaze full of piteous, loving en- 
treaty; then her hands clinched, a long shud- 
der seized her, and a fearful sound came from 
her throat. When the last, long agony ended, 
Laurens, who had held her through all, laid her 
down lifeless, and covered his face. Felicia, 
unnoticed by any, had fainted, and lay fallen 
against the side of the bed. 


“ Out of the day and night 
A joy has taken flight: 

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar 
Move my faint heart with grief, but will delight 
No more — oh, never more ! ” 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 



THE FOREIGN LETTER, 


277 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE FOREIGN LETTER. 

TT was the late afternoon of a midwinter day. 

The sun had set ; but a pale line of yellow 
light lay along the horizon, and gleams of it 
shone thiough the pines. Above, the sky was 
cloudy ; the fire had faded from the west, which 
an hour ago had been burning with a crimson 
glow ; and the reflected glory had passed away 
from the pallid eastern hills. The wind sighed ; 
and a woman, walking to and fro in the chill 
evening air, wrapped in a loose black mantle, 
shuddered at the whispering sound. Then a 
sharper rustle as of light, skipping feet, fast fol- 
owing on her track, made her tremble anew. 
She glanced around with a white face and 
great, frightened, but half-defiant eyes. It 
was only a dead oak-leaf, that was follow- 
ing her : the wind had caught it up ; and it 


278 


THE GEORGIANS. 


was dancing along fantastically, with an occa- 
sional lingering on the path, and its curled 
edges made a dry pattering sound on the hard, 
beaten earth. More leaves started up, and 
raced by it, or loitered in the rear. Trifles ter- 
rify the imaginative and troubled mind. It 
seemed to Mme. Orlanoff that each dry leaf, 
fantastically curled, served as the cloak of some 
tripping, malicious little fiend : they huddled 
in consultation, lingered in her path, and pres- 
ently, rising suddenly on the wings of a va- 
grant, eddying current of air, flew around her, 
and one sharply brushed her cheek and cold 
pink ear. She uttered an involuntary cry, and 
covered her ears with her hands. 

Bah ! I am atrociously nervous ! I will go 
in to the fire,” she said, under her breath. But 
she did not take her hands from her ears until 
she had ascended the piazza-steps, and crossed 
to the front door. Then, as she entered her 
house, she dropped her hands, and glanced 
back. The sound of the rustling leaves smote 
on her ears as she did so. 

“ Back ! little messengers of the Devil ! ” she 
ejaculated, as if tempted past endurance; and 


THE FOREIGN LETTER. 279 

she went hastily in, and closed the heavy 
door. 

She entered a room on the side of the hall 
opposite to that which she had formerly used so 
constantly, — the haunted room, in which Bride 
had been married, and Kate had danced ; where 
a thousand memories, and all of them now bit- 
ter, were enshrined. A fire blazed in a modern 
grate in the new parlor ; a small upright piano 
stood against the wall ; pictures — a few fine 
engravings, with no associations lurking about 
them — hung on the newly-tinted walls ; the 
furniture was old, plain, and heavy, most of it 
long unused, but good. An empty easy-chair, 
leather-cushioned, stood on one side of the fire : 
on the other side Mrs. Davidge was sitting, in a 
pretty little rocking-chair. She was reading by 
the light of a large lamp, set on a heavy round 
table near her. She looked up as her niece 
entered. 

“You look cold, Fdise — frozen ; come to the 
fire,” she said. “Has the boy got back from 
town yet 

“Not yet,” Felicia answered wearily, sinking 
into the low leather chair, — she had a weakness 


28 o 


THE GEORGIANS. 


for chairs that she could make nests of, — and 
rubbing a cold cheek with her hand. 

I hope you’ve not been out bare-headed in 
the cold,” Mrs. Davidge said, rather anxiously. 
‘Mndeed, Fdise, you need looking after by 
some one. I regard Bride as a striking exam- 
ple of what care and prudence will do for one. 
Capt. Ferguson is so strict with her about 
wrappings and shoes and every thing of the 
sort, that she is growing quite sturdy.” 

“I am glad you feel satisfied about her,” 
Felicia roused herself to reply. “So long as 
you hear from her every day or two that she’s 
well, I hope you’ll stay out here with me ; will 
you not } ” 

“Yes: it’s always pleasant to be with you, 
dear,” Mrs. Davidge replied serenely ; “ and 
then I don’t want the captain to think he’s 
obliged to have a bad case of mother-in-law 
because he has taken a widow’s only daughter. 
I don’t care quite to live at the barracks, unless 
Bride should need me. And as long as they 
are stationed here, I shall call The Pines my 
home, if you choose to encourage me in it.” 

The door opened ; and Miss Palestine Hyman 


THE FOREIGN LETTER. 28 1 

put in her small knobby head, with its thin and 
scanty covering of gray hair. 

“Come, ladies, come in to your dinner: it’s 
all ready for you,” she said, her voice pitched 
in a high, cheery key. 

“Let us have it brought in here to-night,” 
Mme. Orlanoff said, looking towards her aunt. 
“It is so warm and cosey in here, — what do 
you say ? I hate to think of encountering the 
draughts of that wide, open hall.” 

“It would be very comfortable here,” Mrs. 
Davidge assented. 

“ Can it be done. Miss Tiny } ” Mme. Orlan- 
off asked carelessly, not turning her head. 

“Certainly it kin, ef that is your notion,” 
Miss Palestine returned briskly, and trotted 
away. 

“Fdise, she’s a good little old soul, that 
housekeeper of yours,” Mrs. Davidge re- 
marked. 

“I am very, very weary of her goodness,” 
Mme. Orlanoff replied dryly. 

Mrs. Davidge looked up in surprise. 

“ I kept her in the house at first, because I 
was so lonely, and she so unsentimental, active. 


282 


THE GEORGIANS, 


and full of bustle — she relieved me,” Mme. 
Orlanoff, said in a listless way. '‘Then, she 
insisted on putting up all sorts of conserves, 
pickles, and sweets, as the autumn drew on : in 
that way she became accustomed to handle the 
keys, and feel herself at home in kitchen and 
storeroom; she even cooked for me, I believe, 
when I was ill, before you and Bride came 
back ; and I gave her the housekeeping alto- 
gether at that time, of course. It seems like a 
good arrangement for her, and I am willing to 
have it so ; but she annoys me, at times, past 
expression. Do you never notice” — with a 
quick, keen glance — “a great variation in her 
manner to me from time to time } ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” Mrs. Davidge asked 
in astonishment. 

“ Why, she is very submissive and obsequious 
at times ; and then again she strikes me as 
being positively patronizing in her ways : she 
smiles and looks at me, and speaks to me, as if 
she were indulging me, — yielding a point that 
she might maintain. She talks to me with a 
degree of familiarity that I never before en- 
dured in a servant.” , 


THE FOREIGN LETTER. 


283 


‘^F^lise, you exaggerate, dear. She has no 
idea of her manners offending you. She is 
used to consider herself the equal of any 
human being, that’s all. It’s a marvel to me 
that she consents to live with you, and not eat 
with you at table.” 

She did tell me that she was used to that ; 
but, as she considered my hours outlandish, she 
condescended to be satisfied with separate 
meals. She breakfasts much earlier than I, 
dines at mid-day, and takes her supper after we 
have dined. Perhaps she would have demanded 
the position of my vis-a-vis at table, had our 
hours been identical.” 

“You speak as if you were serious.” 

“ Ah ! I am foolish. It is all my fancy, no 
doubt. I grow old and suspicious.” 

The door opened ; and Miss Palestine sailed 
in, a plate in each hand. A negro girl followed, 
cleared the large centre-table of books, and 
spread a cloth; and after a little bustle the 
table was made ready, and rolled closer to the 
fire. 

During all Miss Tiny’s exertions, Mme. 
Orlanoff had been sitting very still in her chair. 


284 


THE GEORGIANS. 


watching her with keen, attentive eyes. The 
dull, unhappy suspicion that had changed her 
from the large-hearted, benevolent woman of 
the past, to this brooding, wounded creature, 
owed its life to the fear born of self-contempt ; 
to the fear that had almost robbed Kate Lau- 
rens of an honest prayer for her life ; the fear 
that had listened to every murmur of her dying 
lips, and suffered no soul to share the watching 
by her sick-bed until utterly exhausted. Miss 
Palestine had been alone with Kate for some 
hours on the day of her death : who was to say 
whether or no in some access of delirium, some 
flitting moment of consciousness, Kate had 
uttered some undying word that left a secret 
scorn of the proud lady to live on in the with- 
ered spinster’s mind } 

Felicia felt that she had fallen when she real- 
ized how she brooded over such fancies without 
wit or courage to solve the doubt. She strug- 
gled against her own warped nature, in her bet- 
ter hours ; and yet in some passionate moments 
her heart cried out in agony, and she thought 
she wished this poor old woman dead — As you 
wished Kate to dioy' a snakedike whisper said ; 


THE FOREIGN LETTER. 285 

and then, “Am I indeed a murderer at heart?” 
cried the tormented and unhappy creature. 

Alas ! the womanish facility in self-torture ! 
Womanhood is its own judge, its own rack, its 
own avenger. This was but a drop in the tor- 
rent of the inundating remorseful woe which 
bore Mme. Orlanoff away at times in its flood- 
tides. 

She came to the dinner-table to-night looking 
white and wan. At every step without, she 
started. Mrs. Davidge had no key to her 
niece’s nervousness. She noticed, indeed, that 
F'elise was “ready to fly;” but she never sus- 
pected that the impatience she once or twice 
expressed as to the delay of her messenger’s 
return from town was because of any personal 
interest in what he was to bring. The one 
important thing he was to bring was a note 
from Bride at the barracks, to Mrs. Davidge’s 
thinking. To that lady it never occurred that 
the foreign mail was over-due, or that Mme. 
Orlanoff attached any great importance to the 
letters that occasionally came to her from Lau- 
rens, who had gone abroad. 

With dessert the mail came at last, and was 


286 


THE GEORGIANS. 


handed to Mme. Orlanoff by the ever-ready 
Miss Tiny. Felicia turned over the little pile 
of papers with an unsteady hand, giving her 
aunt a letter and a small package from Bride, 
almost unconsciously. Every mail from Europe 
was an agony to her. “ Am I forgotten yet ? ” 
was the cry of the doubting heart that judged 
itself unworthy of true love and constancy. . 
Each letter that came was to her — strangely 
enough, for they were all deeply fraught with a 
deathless love she might have learned to lean 
upon — only a respite, a brief reprieve from 
the headsman’s axe. She had settled it, before 
Laurens had been gone a week, although he had 
gone by her decree, that he should find a fairer 
fate abroad, and that her punishment should be 
that he should despise and forsake her in the 
end. 

Mrs. Davidge looked up from Bride’s letter. 
Fdlise was strangely still. Her cold hands 
were holding an open letter : a red spot burned 
on either cheek. It was a foreign letter, with a 
coat-of-arms stamped upon the thin, black- 
edged paper, which she was slowly and pain 
fully reading. 


THE FOREIGN LETTER. 


287 


“Fdlise, Felise, what is the matter?” Mrs. 
Davidge exclaimed in positive alarm at the 
sight of Mme. Orlanoff’s face. 

Count Orlanoff, my husband, is dead, 
Madame,” Felicia announced in a dry, formal 
manner ; and then, as if the sound of her own 
voice had shaken her self-control, she broke 
out with sobs into the cry, O my Father, I 
have sinned, I have sinned, and Thou hast 
chastened me sore ! Leave me not, neither 
forsake me ! ” 

She bowed her face, hidden in her two hands. 
Miss Tiny drew near : Mrs. Davidge motioned 
to her to leave them alone, and bent over her 
niece full of pity and of amazement. As the 
door closed on Miss Palestine, Mme. Orlanoff’s 
slow sobs broke into wild weeping, and to Mrs. 
Davidge’s relief she wept long and freely upon 
her aunt’s bosom : but, when the fit was over, 
she lifted a face which showed a grief that no 
tears could lighten ; a darkness unexplained and 
most dreary had settled upon it. How could 
her aunt know her thoughts ? “ A little longer, 

and I should have been free ! Honor main- 
tained one brief half-year longer, and I could 


288 . 


THE GEORGIANS. 


have chosen my love, had I willed, before the 
eyes of all men ! Why did I fail by so short a 
time ? And why, ah ! why is this — that on the 
day I hear that I may love him does his letter 
fail me at last ? ” 

The shock, the pain, the penitence, had all 
swung back to that : the old point was re- 
gained ; and doubt said, “ I am unworthy of 
his love and honor ; ” and doubt said, “ Does he 
know it ? Has the world taught him ? Is he 
lost — just now ? ” 

Hope lives so long as questions can be asked ; 
but often the readier and subtler answer, drown- 
ing hope’s reply, is given by doubt ! 


A /i, well-a-day^ for we are souls bereaved! 

Of all the creatures under heaven'' s wide copCy 
We are most hopeless who had once most hope^ 

And most beliejless who had once believedP 

Arthur Hugh Clough. 



ALL THAT LOVE CAN DO. 


291 


CHAPTER XV. 

ALL THAT LOVE CAN DO. 

TT is the afternoon of a rainy February day. 

The roads are heavy, and the wheels of the 
carriage sink almost to the hub in the stiff red 
mud ; the thin horses, well lashed by their 
owner, a stalwart negro hack-driver, struggle 
on valiantly, but are not travelling at the rate 
of four miles an hour; the gentleman who is 
the solitary occupant of this chance vehicle sits 
stoically silent on the shabby cushions within, 
and only glances out now and then — each time 
with unfeigned surprise at the slowness with 
which he progresses from one well-known point 
to another. Looking put once more, his eyes 
meet those of a negro-man who is sitting on a 
small .load of wood staked up on a diminutive 
wagon-frame, and drawn by two poor steers. 
The darky smiles, and touches his ragged felt 
hat. 


292 THE GEORGIANS. 

** Howdy, Mars’ Laurens ! ” 

The good-natured chance greeting, which he 
answers pleasantly, helps Laurens to realize 
that he has not been away so long as to make 
his re-appearance seem very noteworthy to the 
majority of people. True, it has not been six 
months since he travelled this road daily ; yet 
his absence has seemed to him age-long : and 
every thing strikes him as strange and unfamil- 
iar in the accustomed way ; at least, he can 
comprehend the impression all would make 
upon a stranger’s mind. 

He is not thinking very connectedly, how- 
ever : for all his outward calm, there is a 
tumult of feeling going on within ; and when 
the gate is passed, and he first catches sight of 
the house at The Pines, his heart is throbbing 
heavily. No one looks from door or window as 
the carriage-wheels grate on the stone before 
the steps ; but as he walks up the piazza, after 
alighting, the front door opens for him as if of 
its own accord. He enters, glancing from left 
to right. To the right, on the threshold of a 
room he has never before entered, Mme. Orlan- 
off stands, very pale, her great dark brilliant 


ALL THAT LOVE CAN DO. 293 

eyes full of expectation. In a moment he has 
clasped the hand she holds out, and they are 
together in the strange, new room, with the 
door shut behind them. He scarcely notices 
the unfamiliar aspect of the apartment : why 
should he care for trifles This his fair, first, 
only love, whose face he has been pining for, is 
at his side, is in his arms at his first half-com- 
pelling, half-wooing movement. He puts down 
his cold cheek to hers : then, slowly, they have 
turned their faces, and they kiss each other, — 
not as youth and maiden might, nor as happy 
wedded man and wife, — but gravely, slowly, 
and as if sealing a solemn vow ; all their future 
is pledged in that kiss, 

After that they withdraw from each other 
a little ; but Laurens still gently retains his 
hold of her, and looks down on her beautiful 
face. His proud and happy look draws her eyes 
up to his : a red flush dyes her delicate cheek, 
and a brighter light comes to her eyes. 

“I knew you would come,” she says softly. 

I would have borrowed the wings of the 
wind if I could,” he replies, without moving his 


294 


THE GEORGIANS. 


“ I knew that I had trusted no mean man,’^ 
she says, in the same tone, as if it is good to 
repeat the assurance to her own heart. 

“Darling,” he answers quickly, his brow 
darkening ever so little, “ give me no credit for 
returning to you. You have been unhappy — 
your letters have betrayed it. I have blamed 
my dull wits a thousand times, that I had no 
skill to write in some way that would make you 
know my heart. Love, I am come back be- 
cause I cannot live without the joy of your 
presen9e, — for no other cause.” 

“You are the most generous, faithful ” — 

“ Hush ! the happiest, most blessed man on 
the earth — or soon shall be ! ” he cries. And 
then, after a little pause, softly, ^'How soon .? ” 

“ Dearest, hush ! ” she smiles back in her 
turn. “You have come wooing early enough. 
Don’t think of shocking my family past expres- 
sion by asking a question like that ! ” 

“You don’t mean — you will not trifle with 
me } ” he asks, in harsh, painful surprise. 
“You are not about to make any great show 
of coldness, or ask me to go through the forms 
of courtship and compliment.? Have not these 


ALL THAT LOVE CAN DO. 295 

months been like years ? Did you not, years 
ago, say what was really your last farewell to 
him f What shadow is to linger between us 
now ? ” 

None, so far as my will goes,” she begins 
quite humbly. He raises his head. 

Then none of this world’s raising shall part 
us,” he says with resolution. “ I have come to 
claim you, to take you away ; and I shall claim 
you now'' 

He speaks with all the impetuosity of an 
ardent and impatient lover, unconscious that 
he may wound her quick pride. Is it she who 
replies to him, softly and yet coldly withal } 

“ As you will. I am quite in your power.” 

He starts, stung by that bitter answer; but 
before he can speak, the door opens, and Mrs. 
Davidge comes in, in her fluttering, nervous, 
butterfly way, stopping to throw her book on a 
table, diverging to catch up a light shawl from 
a chair, and all in great haste. 

“ How do you do, Mr. Laurens ? Such a bad 
day fof travelling, isn’t it ? " she says, at last 
coming to him, and giving her hand. “I am 
so glad to see you again, though I was quite 


296 


THE GEORGIANS. 


astonished to hear that you were expected so 
soon. The voyage must be so unpleasant at 
this time of the year.” 

It was not so pleasant as the going,” Lau- 
rens, answers her closing remark. It is with an 
effort that he turns from -Mme. Orlanoff to her 
aunt. The speech of course means that a sea- 
voyage is to be made with more comfort in 
summer than in the midwinter. Why should 
Felise change color so swiftly, and then turn 
away } 

He sits by the fire, and chats with the elder 
lady, who is hospitably inclined. Mme. Orlan- 
off hardly speaks to him until her aunt hazards 
some remark about his house, supposing that 
he has been home before coming hither. He 
says that he has only made a halt at a hotel in 
the city. 

*‘You have ordered your baggage brought 
here, I hope, Mr. Laurens,” observes the mis- 
tress of The Pines. “ I expect a neighbor’s full 
rights. You must stay here till your house is 
in order.” 

“No, I thank you, I shall not be here long : 
I shall go on to my grandfather’s old place,” 
Laurens answers her calmly. 


ALL THAT LOVE CAN DO. 297 

Mme. Orlanoff forces a smile. 

‘^Are you such a man of business.^” she 
asks, with that slow distinctness that marks her 
displeasure. “We have been such friends, I 
had hoped to claim more of you than a passing 
visit. When is it you leave ” 

He looks at her, bewildered : he has thought 
that she wished him to appear as a casual 
visitor at first, and has replied aa he supposed 
she would have him to her invitation just given. 
Yet now she is plainly displeased. He feels no 
impatience with her, but a sort of dull dissatis- 
faction at the state of things. He has no taste 
for intrigue or dissimulation ; but he wishes his 
lady to have no cause of complaint, and re- 
solves to do his best. 

“ To-morrow or next day I must go,” he re- 
plies at a venture. 

Mrs. Davidge here makes the most unwel- 
come remark that is possible. 

“Ah ! I’ve heard you’ve a pretty young cous- 
in down there, Mr. Laurens,” she says, smiling. 
“ Business must be very pressing indeed ! ” 

Laurens flushes darkly and slowly, half from 
anger at his own embarrassment, half because 


THE GEORGIANS. 


298 

he feels as if already entangled in cobwebs he 
cannot tear off. At this moment Miss Tiny 
looks in, and announces, — 

“ The lunch is all ready. Why, howdy, Mr. 
Laurens } ” she goes on, nodding to him. “ Glad 
to see you back looking so well. Excuse my 
left hand,” for he comes to shake hands with 
Miss Tiny, who nursed his sister, and shrouded 
her body. Miss Palestine’s right hand and 
wrist are swathed in red flannel : she has had 
a touch of rheumatism. 

Lunch is over, and Laurens has come back 
with Mrs. Davidge to the parlor; Felise fora 
moment remaining behind, detained by some 
household affair. 

“Do you find Felise looking well ” the aunt 
asks innocently of Laurens. “Do you think 
she is changed since you saw her .? ” 

“ Not at all : she looks well always,” Laurens 
replies very quietly, not to say stiffly. 

“ She has not been at all well, I think : I was 
wondering if it told on her ; one can never 
judge, seeing a person daily,” Mrs. Davidge 
goes on. “Did you know, — have you heard 
— Fdise has recently lost her husband } ” 


ALL THAT LOVE CAN DO. 299 

I had heard that before I returned.” 

The words have no sooner passed his lips 
than he perceives that they have struck his 
companion as significant ; and then he knows 
that he has given the hint which Mme. Orlan- 
off did not wish conveyed to her at present : 
but, after a minute’s brief pause, and a curious 
little look at him, Mrs. Davidge smiles pleas- 
antly, saying, — 

I am glad that you have returned home.” 

She chats on till her niece joins them, but 
she does not remain long after that ; excusing 
herself, she goes out, but fails to return any 
more. 

When Mrs. Davidge is gone, Laurens takes 
Mme. Orlanoff’s hand. She permits him to do 
so, but sits perfectly passive and still, with her 
eyes cast down. 

“Darling, I have been stupid enough to 
offend you,” he tenderly says; “but don’t be 
unforgiving, will you } Tell me what you will 
have me to do, and I will do just that. I want 
to make you happy now : I have no other 
object in life.” 

“ Do you know that you break my heart with 


300 


THE GEORGIANS. 


your forbearance and your consideration and 
your unselfishness ?” she says bitterly. ‘‘You 
feel that you are a gentleman, that you must be 
loyal, you must be delicate ; but has not all the 
charm gone for you, all the strong attraction 
that you could not resist } I know it : I know 
that it is not in the nature of men to desire 
what they are sure of, to .value what is too 
accessible. It was the height of folly, to say 
no more, to lay bare my heart to you at a time 
when it was sinful in me to crave your offered 
love. I shall be punished for it forever.” 

“ This is all, then : this is the root of bitter- 
ness,” Laurens says slowly, still holding her 
hand. “ The trouble all comes from your over- 
sensitive conscience, darling': you have been 
repenting ever since you showed your love to 
me, and thinking yourself blameworthy. I 
don’t know what you think of me for tempt- 
ing you : you ought to hate me for causing you 
all this mental torture. I should have been 
stronger and more self-controlled for your sake. 
I have blamed myself ever since I left you, — 
listen, — not because I think it was any sin to 
love you, nor to win all I could of your love, 


ALL THAT LOVE CAN DO. 3OI 

sweet, but because I was selfish enough to let 
myself go, secure in the satisfying of my own 
scruples, and forgetting that you, with your 
pure and tender heart, would torment yourself 
afterwards through my folly. I see that you 
have done this, that you have exaggerated all 
of this past into a horror for yourself, and it 
alarms me : for I am almost afraid that now, 
when love brings me back to your dear arms, 
your uneasy mind suspects that duty only calls 
me to fulfil our vows ; you fancy that I do not 
honor you as I should have done if you had 
been more coy. Darling, believe me, that I 
think the sweetest and most unselfish impuls^ 
of all your blessed life was that which laid your 
arms about me, and gave me the lips I had 
thirsted for so long ! I love you as no prude 
was ever loved, but as I could only love a pure 
woman and a stainless one, such as you.” 

The strong, sustained effort to reason away 
the self-reproach that rendered her hateful to 
herself; the unshaken, passionate tenderness 
that breathed through every sentence, — moved 
her profoundly, and almost broke the power of 
that dejection which weighed her down. At 


302 


THE GEORGIANS. 


least there was this certain joy, that he desired 
to restore her to happiness and self-respect ; 
and grateful tears swam into the dark eyes 
which fixed themselves upon his ardent face. 

Let us give up the past,” she said softly. 
“I know — and no sophistry can convince me 
to the contrary — that it was a sin for me to 
yield to my heart’s desires. I know, too, that . 
you were better than I. Have I not worn that 
letter you wrote in farewell, when you meant to 
be strong and to leave me, — have I not worn 
it out poring over it, and extracted from it a 
bitterness and a sweetness only you can divine } 

I know that I should have let you go ; that 
the laws of God, and honor among men, rightly 
require us to be faithful to a solemn promise, 
such as one makes in marrying : I had no right 
to love you, and less than none to tell you of 
my love ; it was a sin to yield as I did — hush ! 

I must say this, frankly and fairly, once and for 
all. I would give the world to have been true 
to God and man in that emergency, and so to 
have a clean conscience now ; but the self-dis- 
trust, the sting of memory, I must bear forever, 
and be thankful if you, too, do not reproach me 


ALL THAT LOVE CAN DO. 303 

before the end. Ah, I know, my darling, you 
are good — don’t hush me yet! — I know that 
^God is merciful, or he would not spare me so 
far, and give me your great love. I have seen 
something of the world. I know that when 
women of my acquaintance — married women 
— have had lovers, the last men on earth to 
marry them when they became free were those 
former lovers. I know that not one man in 
five hundred would be what you are under these 
circumstances. I don’t know where your roy- 
alty comes from, — whether it is because you 
have not lived in the world, the world that I 
have known ” — 

‘^Say that a country man, a Georgian, may 
be constant in love when a Paris-bred gentle- 
man might not be, and admit that barbarians 
have their good points,” he said, half-smiling, 
half-nettled, but anxious to change the course of 
her thoughts. 

You are the only man in the world to me I ” 
she declared, with a look and accent to make 
amends for all his wounds. “ But I know,” she 
went on, the painful, resolute expression return- 
ing to her face, ‘‘that it is rare for a woman to 


304 


THE GEORGIANS. 


have any true happiness in after-life when she 
has been so weak as I. God is good ; and you 
love me yet, you do not despise me, though 
Heaven only knows how you might have adored 
me if I had been — had been what Kate would 
have been in my place ! ” her voice sank. Lau- 
rens clasped her hand almost convulsively, but 
uttered no sound. ^ Gone is gone, dead is 
dead ! ’ she went on slowly, her eyes on the 
gray skies without. Oh, if it were possible 
to awake, I sometimes think, and to find all 
this a broken, bad) sad dream ! Oh, if I could 
wake in the joy of some new day, and rise, and 
find myself an innocent woman, with no secret, 
no troubled memory, — if I could wake, and 
know it all a dream, what would I not give } ” 
Laurens drew her nearer, and kissed her lips 
into silence ; but she withdrew from him with 
a passionate cry : Oh, I do not know if even 
now I would give your love, with all its weight 
of torture, to undo the past ! I am not willing 
to make that atonement. And I must be very 
sinful if I cannot readily give this world and 
every joy to be once more God’s child, and hold 
his hand in peace again ! Love me, Mark, love 


ALL THAT LOVE CAN DO. 305 

me, for heaven itself might go now before I 
would give up your love ! ” 

Unrestful, bitter passion ! They caressed 
each other with empty warmth. A subtle 
sense that their best joys had passed came to 
both. Laurens struggled with it. 

“You have said your say, now,” he declared 
with an air of playful decision. “ You will not 
talk like this any more.? Do not, dear love. 
It only confirms you in gloomy thoughts. You 
must forget all that troubles you. It does not 
trouble me. I was to blame : I take the whole 
blame, and am willing to take it, here and here- 
after. I do not believe there was any thing sin- 
ful in our love. If there had been, it would not 
have lasted. No love lasts that is not founded 
on purity and mutual esteem. There was noth- 
ing wrong, there was every thing that was irre- 
sistible to bring us to. a full confession of our 
love. We were not to blame if nature con- 
quered conventionality.” 

“Mark,” she said, leaning towards him with 
a flushed cheek, “ do not let us try to rear false 
defences. Be your old self, my darling. Let 
us own our fault. I have thought — I have 


3o6 


THE GEORGIANS. 


thought SO often lately, of your old desire to be 
a minister.” He started, and looked hard at 
her. I am not fit, perhaps, for a minister s 
wife ; but — but at least you used to have a 
devout spirit, dear. You were always much 
better than I. I have thought too, — I think 
now, — that if we could in any way go to God 
together, and beg him to forgive our past, and 
help us in the future, that he might bless us. 
You can pray better than I : I want you to 
pray for us now.” 

Her eyes were downcast, and her hurrying 
breath betrayed her agitation. A darkness lay 
on the young man’s brow. -» 

‘‘We must rely on ourselves if we want to 
have a happy future,” he gravely replied. “ I 
have no superstitious faith in prayer.” 

She started, and looked wistfully into his 
stern face. 

“Did you not pray for Kate when she was 
dying ? ” she asked searchingly. 

“ I have not prayed since,” he said. 

Then there was silence. 


On his way back to the city, an accident 


ALL THAT LOVE CAH HO. 307 

broke in on Laurens’s gloomy revery. The 
roads had become almost impassable ; hack and 
harness were old ; the carriage broke down, and 
he was forced to get out in the rain, and walk 
over a mile before reaching his hotel, which he 
entered at last, thoroughly wet, but well aroused 
from his despondent mood. He had felt the 
change in Mme. Orlanoff keenly. She had 
used to seem to him the dower of the world, so 
finely self-possessed, so serenely pure, so lofty 
in all her ideas, and so sweetly courteous. Her 
beauty had been but one of her rare charms. 
This passionate, troubled, appealing soul, that 
refused to accept comfort readily, appalled him 
with forebodings of the future. 

Will she ever rest, or let me rest ? ” he had 
asked. 

Then the carriage had come to grief, and he 
had been obliged to get out and walk ; and the 
brisk exercise had relieved him for the time, 
both from his trouble about her, and the secret 
pain of realizing that he, too, was altered, and 
that she had felt it. 

When he had left her, Mme. Orlanoff stood 
at the window, with both hands pressed hard 


3o8 


THE GEORGIANS, 


together, and a passionate glow on either 
cheek. 

This is the best life holds for me : this is 
the best love can do for me,” she repeated over 
and over to herself. Constancy, fidelity, love, 
more than I dared to expect, more than I de- 
serve, more , than many others have, — this is 
the best of them. He is true to me, he loves 
me, and I must marry him for honor’s sake. 
This is the best love can do, — to marry me. 
And I must be glad — and I must not ever 
think he means to hurt me. But he has never 
prayed for me since we have parted, and he will 
never pray for me again ! ” 

Mme. Orlanoff and Laurens came rapidly up 
the road, their horses cantering side by side, 
and the riders looking at each other with bright 
eyes. Felicia, in her dark-blue riding-habit, 
which became her well, looked as young and 
slender as a girl in her teens. A rosy glow 
was on her cheek, rounded more perfectly than 
when we saw her last. Laurens, whose com- 
manding, stately figure never appeared to bet- 
ter advantage than when he was well mounted, 


ALL THAT LOVE CAH HO. 309 

looked proudly at his lovely companion. . They 
had passed several weeks together, — happier 
weeks than either of them had quite expected 
to know, after their first troubled meeting. 
Mrs. Davidge had been informed of their en- 
gagement without evincing any tendency to 
criticise or deplore it : in fact, she had seemed 
pleased, and told Felise that she hoped now to 
see her enjoy a little domestic happiness in the 
way of ordinary mortals. Laurens had had one 
room in his own house put in order, and slept 
there. But he spent every day at The Pines, 
and was a model of the unostentatiously de- 
voted lover. He had not returned to his old 
place of worship, but drove to the city on Sun 
day morning with Mrs. Davidge to the Episco- 
pal church, and was outwardly devout and 
exemplary. Mme. Orlanoff went to church 
with her aunt, also, now and then ; and the 
minister who had married Bride and Capt. Fer- 
guson was to perform the same office for her 
and Laurens. The day for this marriage had 
not yet been fixed, but Felicia had promised 
her lover that it should be not long deferred ; 
and he had been so patient with her sadder 


310 


THE GEORGIANS. 


moods, so joyful in her * hours of reviving 
brightness and warmth, that she had made a 
strong effort to forget what was irrevocable, to 
look forward to hopes of the future. Her lover 
seemed to have won her anew. She was learn- 
ing to see with his eyes, and to respect herself 
because he respected her : she was entirely de- 
pendent on him. for the continuance of the hap- 
piness he bestowed, it is true. Her peace must 
forever depend on his perfect and unaltered 
love : it was to be even more true of her than 
of every other loving woman, — 

“ Nor stands she higher 
Than her Beloved’s heart.” 

When they reached The Pines, Laurens, dis- 
mounting, assisted his fiancee to alight, press- 
ing her in his arms a moment as he did so ; and 
they entered the house together in a joyous 
mood. To their surprise, the door of the now 
unused apartment in which so much of the 
former year had been passed stood ajar, and 
Mme. Orlanoff caught a glimpse of some one 
standing within it. She advanced to the 
threshold, and perceived that it was Jack 


ALL THAT LOVE CAN DO. 311 

Stevens, who was leaning on one end of the 
mantlepiece, with his head on his hand. He 
looked up at her approach. 

“ Good-afternoon, Mme. Orlanoff,” he said, 
shaking himself together with an evident effort 
as he turned to meet her. '‘I — I beg pardon 
for being in here; but I insisted on the ser- 
vant’s admitting me to this room. I wanted to 
say good-by to it ; had so many jolly hours 
here, and — and all that sort of thing. Won’t 
you excuse me } I’ve got a two-months’ leave, 
and to-morrow I’m off. They say we’re all to 
be ordered North later in the spring ; so per- 
haps this is my farewell to old Georgia.” 

“ It will suit my cousin exactly if the regi- 
ment is ordered North,” Mme. Orlanoff said, 
giving Jack her hand. 

Laurens followed her into the room, and 
greeted Jack in a friendly manner. The three 
sat down a while, and chatted civilly ; but all 
were a trifle depressed. Jack, after rising to 
go, turned to Mme. Orlanoff. 

I have a message for you from a friend of 
ours,” he said. Blount is in Florida now, and 
coming North shortly. He asked me to find 


312 


THE GEORGIANS. 


out whether you would permit him to call upon 
you as he comes through. He says he owes 
you an apology. I don’t know whether he 
meant this as a direct message, or no ; but I’ve 
no way to find out whether you’ll see him ex- 
cept by asking outright, — have I, now ? ” with 
a glimpse of his boyish smile. 

will not send Mr. Blount a message, 
either,” Mme. Orlanoff answered composedly, 
though she had paled just a trifle. “ But, if I 
were you, I would advise him in a friendly way, 
not to revisit The Pines this spring.” 

Jack nodded, then put out his hand, and got 
through with his adieux as quickly as possible, 
shaking Laurens’s hand with a close, cordial 
clasp of his own. 

That night Kate Laurens’s grave in the quiet 
cemetery was crowned with fresh white flowers 
that lay heavy with dew beneath the silent 
stars; and Jack was gone on the morrow. 

“Mr. Blount seems to be a constant lover,” 
Laurens said to Mme. Orlanoff before they 
quitted the darkened sitting-room where Jack 
had left them. 

“ Do you think so } ” she asked with a blush 


ALL THAT LOVE CAH DO. 313 

that annoyed Laurens, who had never forgotten 
his sensations on Blount’s first appearance. 

‘‘He made you very angry when he was here 
last, did he not } ” Laurens asked. 

“He frightened me,” she returned slowly. 
“ Do you remember he left me a letter from a 
foreign correspondent } That letter was full of 
gossip about Count Orlanoff, his dissipations, 
the close of his career, his madness, and so 
forth : but the sting of it all lay in this, that it 
was rumored that he was now recovering his 
mind, if, indeed, he had ever been insane ; for 
there was a suspicion that he had never been 
as mad as his family pretended, but had been 
confined for fear of his further disgracing his 
relatives. It was suggested that his wife and 
his sister desired immunity from his visits, and 
a division of such property as he had not squan- 
dered.” 

“The infamous villain ! How dared the man 
place such a string of vile calumnies in your 
hands 1 Why have you not told me before } 
He deserves to be thrashed for his impudence ! ” 

“No one ever cared for Mr. Blount: he 
always did just as, he chose, no matter how 


314 


THE GEORGIANS. 


reckless the fancy, and good manners were 
scarcely expected of him. I did not give a 
thought to his conduct : what frightened me 
was the suggestion ” — 

Suggestion of what } ” 

It seemed that I should have been quite 
sure that he was insane, since I was the one he 
had terrified most ; but this letter called up 
fearful doubts. Suppose it had been at the 
most a temporary fit of madness } Suppose it 
had not been quite so bad afterwards as they 
pretended to me ; but that Anna, his sister, 
who could be as cruel as he, was too eager to 
have her husband spared from further difficul- 
ties about him I think she felt kindly towards 
me : I think she thought it was better for me. 
Vague suspicions of years seemed to strengthen 
as I read that letter : it seemed to me that its 
doubts might all be justifiable.” 

Laurens stood looking at her with a slow 
horror stiffening his heavy features. 

“ But that would be a great cruelty, no mat- 
ter how wicked a man had been, to confine him 
as a madman when he was not mad,” he said 
slowly. 


ALL THAT LOVE CAN DO. 315 

*‘Yes, no doubt,” she replied with much 
calmness. “ I should not have permitted it at 
the time if I had had any suspicions. When 
that letter came, it was too late. If I had gone 
back to Europe, and rescued him then, I should 
have had to be his wife — when I knew you.” 

Laurens groaned, and covered his eyes with 
his hand. She stood there apparently as un- 
conscious as a child of any failure in duty. 
Had those days of solitude after she had read 
the letter really passed over her without any 
struggle that could leave a trace } He 
stretched out his hands, and caught her by her 
slender wrists, looking down at the same time 
into her innocent face. 

Speak to me honestly, earnestly,” he said 
hoarsely. Do you believe he was mad } ” 

I don’t know.” 

If you had known he was not, — that he was 
suffering unjustly” — 

‘‘After I had begun to love you.^*-” 

“ Oh, my darling ! If you had known, at any 
time, that he was unjustly suffering this” — 

“ Don’t hold me so hard ! ” she cried sharply. 
“ Did he not deserve to suffer } And I am not 


sure 


3i6 


THE GEORGIANS. 


Laurens dropped her wrists, turned away, 
and sank down in a chair. There w'as a long 
silence. Mme. Orlanoff was frightfully pale. 
After a while she moved slowly away from 
Laurens towards the door, — very slowly : each 
step was as if dragged against some heavy 
weight. As she neared the door, Laurens un- 
covered his eyes. The first object that met 
them was the long, low couch that stood near 
the side-door. A shock passed through his 
frame. ‘‘Bound in honor,” said a still small 
voice that was like thunder in his ears. He 
started up. 

“Come back, Felicia; come back, darling!” 
he cried, turning, and opening his arms to her. 
She hurried into their strong embrace, and they 
held her as if in a clasp of iron. 

“Felicia, let us have no quarrels; let us be 
married — soon,” he said huskily. “When shall 
it be ? Can it not be this week, — next week, 
Monday ? ” 

She shuddered visibly. 

“ Nine years ago on Monday I was married 
first,” she whispered. 

Laurens’s arms relaxed their hold for an 
instant, then almost roughly clasped her again. 


ALL THAT LOVE CAN DO. 317 

“When shall it be, then? Tell me,” he in- 
sisted. 

“ You hurt me, Mark,” she protested faintly. 

He released her, led her across the room, and 
seated her, taking his place at her side. His 
face was rather pale and grim for a lover’s, but 
his ardent eyes never left her face. 

“ Name the happy day,” he said. “ Let it be 
next week, if you love me.” 

“Thursday, then,” she said almost inaudibly. 
Then, glancing suddenly around her, she per- 
ceived that they sat together where they had 
been sitting on that fatal night when Kate had 
come upon them. .She looked wildly towards 
the door, as if an apparition tall, lovely, light- 
bearing, stood within the darkened doorway ; 
and then, shrinking into her lover’s iron arms 
again, she burst into tears, more mournful, more 
bitter, than any she had ever shed. 


318 


THE GEORGIANS. 


* ^ 


****** 


So you have seen her again at last ? ” Jack 
Stevens said, two years later, sitting with Blount 
in a window of Blount’s club rooms in New 
York, and glancing away from the forms pass- 
ing up Fifth Avenue to look into his compan- 
ion’s face. 

Seen her again I should say so ! I was 
her most devoted for two months in Rome,” 
Blount said carelessly, leaning back in the 
heavy leather chair. 

*‘You don’t mean to say that she permits 
people to be devoted now } I thought that 
handsome Georgian had won her completely,” 
Jack said. 

“Wasn’t that a grotesque marriage.^ What 
on earth but pure idleness ever made her amuse 
herself with an awkward young Methodist such 


ALL THAT LOVE CAN DO. 319 

as he was when we first saw him ? ” Blount 
queried languidly. 

Humph! You saw him with a jaundiced 
eye, old man. He was a very clever fellow; 
bookish, and she liked books, — handsome, — 
and a gentleman. A man can’t be more than a 
gentleman. Then, I thought that she liked the 
life there : there was something unusual in 
her — she was not all fine lady, you know. 
I’ve heard one who knew her w^l ” (he meant 
Kate) say that she loved the simplest things, 
— gardening, farming, talking with plain peo- 
ple, and nursing the sick ” — 

Blount laughed. 

“ She has changed her spots, then. She will 
not live in Georgia at all. She induced Lau- 
rens to go abroad when they were married ; and, 
though I think he wearies for his old employ- 
ments, she keeps him in a round of travel. 
You know, of course, he had money when they 
were married : I don’t know how much, but I 
judge that it was a good deal. And she has 
improved him : he is now one of the best- 
dressed men you meet, and has quite the air — 
very dignified, though. Women rave over him. 


320 THE GEORGIANS. 

Even his wife takes some satisfaction in his 
appearance, I think.” 

“By Jove, Blount, you don’t mean that she 
isn’t in love with him } I thought that must be 
a true love-match when I first heard of it.” 

“ I tell you, I know all about her. I made a 
study of her this last year. She does love him, 
just enough to torture herself about him. If he 
notices another woman, it is death to her* espe- 
cially if she’s young and fresh. She’s about as 
old as Laurens, herself : always a mistake to 
marry a man who won’t turn gray first, I 
think. I heard him say once in defence of a 
pretty young cousin of his who is in Venice 
now with her mother, — a girl Madame always 
did hate, — ‘ Carrie is one of the purest and 
most innocent young girls in the world : she is 
simply too careless and childlike to comprehend 
these social customs ; ’ and this mere assertion 
of the little belle’s freshness and girlishness 
seemed to nettle Mrs. Laurens. She has the 
most irritable manner of any woman I' ever 
knew. Depend upon it, Laurens has no bed of 
roses.” 

“And he has outgrown his devotion to her?” 


ALL THAT LOVE CAN DO. 32 1 

He is very patient, very courteous. A truly 
American husband, their foreign acquaintances 
say, T— submissive under a good many provoca- 
tions, and so like her shadow that she cannot 
get herself scandalized, however she flirts. But 
I am sure — after patient scrutiny — that he is 
more indifferent to her than she to him, and 
that fact suffices to give him the whip-hand in 
emergencies. She only seems to rule him.” 

But what a marriage ! ” 

“ Thank Fate you’re a bachelor — I do ! Yes, 
old fellow, that marriage is a failure. If I didn’t 
know that there was no one could have com- 
pelled them, I should say they had been forced 
to marry : I should fancy that they hated the 
bondage imposed on them, and in it expiated 
some fatal error or crime. They certainly never 
will be, either of them, what they might have 
been. As for her, I pity her most, because she 
is wearing herself but. Sometimes, after think- 
ing of that wan, shadowy hand of hers, that 
brilliant eye and thin flushed cheek as I saw 
her last, I dream of the woman — I used to love 
her ; and last night I dreamed that I saw her 
lying dead. The dream will come true in 
another year.” 


322 


THE GEORGIANS. 


** And if she dies, who shall say that Laurens 
will be happier living ? ” Jack said Seriously. 

“If he has a conscience, — and I hope he 
has,” — Blount said viciously, “I hope it may 
torment him to his dying day for every pang he 
has made that poor soul suffer.” 


8 



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Poems. Edited by W. Winter. 1 vol. 12mo. Illustrated. 

$ 2 . 00 . 


SmeRWAn Arcbicg^c 



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" Round-RoRln 


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Under the above title Messrs. James R. Osgood & Co. begin the 
publication of a new series of anonymous novels. These novels will be 
chiefly by American authors, and chosen with great care. It will be the 
aim of the publishers that each novel shall be distinguished for power, 
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“ SPARKLING.” “ FASCINATING.” “ CHARMING.” 


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“ It a good plot, excellent character-drawing, and the story is told in delightful style. 
There is a certain freshness and purity abourMrs. Burnett’s writings that can never lose 
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‘‘ In her latest novel, ‘ A Fair Barbarian,’ we find Mrs. Burnett amid still other scenes 
and characters ; and here she seems likely to eclipse, at least as far as popularity is con- 
^rned, all her earlier tnumphs. The title of the story is in itself a most happy conception. 
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FOR SALE EVERYWHERE. 


JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO PUBLISHERS, 


BOSTON 




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